


Fire Emblem Fates: Aftermath

by The_Apocryphal_One



Series: Chronicles of the Unexplored [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cousin Incest, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), Politics, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Weddings, Worldbuilding, which I am still salty about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 81,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Apocryphal_One/pseuds/The_Apocryphal_One
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They survived the war. Now they have to survive what comes after. A tale of rebuilding, politics, hope, and, of course, love. Post-Revelation, Corrin/Azura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So here it is, the long post-game fic I promised at the end of Invisible Princess. I already said I’ll be working in explanations and expanding on things I found unsatisfactory, including MyCastle (thanks to Spiner909 on ff.net for coming up with a neat theory and letting me use it, with some alterations) and basically covering post-war efforts. Kids aren’t included because the Deeprealms is dumb and they deserve to grow up with their parents (that’s not to say you won’t see any kids, though, just no adults…).
> 
> This isn’t going to update on a schedule like Invisible Princess did, mostly because I’m also going to be working on a fic about Garon at the same time—yes, that’s happening, there was an overwhelming amount of clamor for it. However, I will try to update at least once every two weeks, and even if I don’t, I completely intend to finish this. The only reasons I will stop updating are if something life-changing that requires my long-term attention happens, or I suddenly die.
> 
> Which would suck.
> 
> …so on that happy note, let’s begin.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Fire Emblem.

 When the flash of light dies out, Corrin braces himself for the next form. Masked dragon, unmasked dragon, that disturbing multiple-eyed orb—he’s not sure what shape Anankos will take next. All he knows is that it will be every bit as exhausting to fight as the last, and he readies Omega Yato grimly, feet sliding back into a battle stance. But seconds tick by, and nothing new appears.

_It’s over?_

The remaining undead soldiers around them hiss, wobble in their spots, then promptly dissipate into water. Slowly, his army lowers their weapons, wary but hopeful. The sky overhead remains dark and the ground ruined, but the dragon god makes no appearance.

_It’s…over._

He’d started to think the battle would never end.

Gods, how long have they been fighting? All day, he thinks in tired astonishment. There was the battle with his mother, then with Sumeragi, then Gunter, and…two, three, maybe four fights with Anankos? He can’t remember; they’re all blending together in his head. His stiff fingers slowly loosen their grip on Omega Yato, the bones popping in protest. Corrin drives the tip of the sword into the ground, leaning on it as he starts gasping in air. His body is sore from all the wounds it had received, and his muscles ache horribly. He’s so drained, physically and emotionally; he just wants to curl up and sleep for a month.

In all the stories, the heroes began cheering and celebrating as soon as the battle was won. In reality, _these_ heroes stand around in vague disbelief and shock for a few minutes. Some stare where they’d last seen Anankos, as though expecting him to pop back up like he was going to surprise them. Some support themselves against their weapons or mounts, like Corrin is. Some just collapse on the spot, falling to the ground as the adrenaline leaves their systems.

Red eyes cast about the battlefield, looking for the ones most important to him. Xander and Ryoma, who had been in the thick of the fighting, are covered in blood but standing strong; Camilla and Hinoka are patting their mounts, whispering soft words of praise; Takumi is still training an arrow at the place he’d last seen Anankos, shaking slightly, while Leo has dropped his head against his horse’s neck and closed his eyes. Elise and Sakura are starting to move about to attend the wounded. Where is—

There. He sags in relief when he sees Azura off to the side, forehead pressed against her blessed lance and eyes closed in prayer. He’d tried to keep track of her during the fight, but the shifting tide of battle had pushed him onto the front lines and her onto the back. Her dress is torn and bloodied, and purple bruises are blossoming across her arms and shoulders, but she’s never looked more beautiful than she does then.

As he approaches her, he catches the soft words she’s whispering. “Mother…Father…We finally did it.”

“Azura,” he rasps, and she turns, a small smile crossing her face at the sight of him. If he’d had the energy he would have kissed her, but as is he settles for returning her smile. “It’s finally over.”

“It is,” she echoes, wonder and joy mixing in her eyes. “Thank you, Corrin. I’m so glad I met you, that we fought together to accomplish this.”

“Me too.” And with that, they fall silent, but the comfortable kind of silence, the one where you don’t need words. The one where you just bask in the presence of the person beside you.

He gazes at her. He can’t imagine living the life she has lived, not only rejected by every place she’s been, but eternally in fear of that dragon. Living with the knowledge of what was coming, the fear that no one would believe her and that she wouldn’t be able to stop it. He thinks she might be the bravest person he’s known, just to have continued getting up every day with that hanging over her.

And she’s still _here_. The war hadn’t killed her as he’d feared it would, Anankos hadn’t killed her, her _song_ hadn’t killed her. He wants to collapse in gratitude and cry thanks to the heavens that she’s _still here_.

But this isn’t the place for a breakdown. So instead, Corrin croaks out into empty air, “Lilith?”

The little dragon appears before him instantly, teleporting in with a bright flash of light. He’s not quite sure how she always seems to know when someone is calling for her, or even when she’s wordlessly needed; it’s just a unique _Lilith_ trait. She takes in the battlefield, absorbing the standing Hoshidan-Nohrian army and the absence of both Anankos and his undead with her large golden eyes.

“You killed him, then?” For some reason he can’t discern, the joy in her voice is tempered with sadness.

“We did,” he says, pushing the question of Lilith’s mood out of his mind for later inquiry. As much as he’d like to make sure she’s alright, he has the state and safety of his entire army to worry about right now. “Can you take us to the castle?”

“Of course, Lord Corrin.”

* * *

The castle has no name. According to Lilith, it was constructed in the onset of the First War—which nation it belonged to has been lost to history—and was a vital chokepoint, on the edge of what was now the Bottomless Canyon. None had been able to breach it; time and again armies threw themselves against it, and time and again they were repelled. Eventually, one side called upon the Astral Dragon Moro to seal the castle, its defenders, and the entire area within 20 kilometers inside an alternate dimension. That dimension was the astral plane; the trapped defenders wasted away and the castle was lost forever. Even history forgot about it, eventually.

It’s still “present”, so to speak, in the physical world, but according to Lilith no one can enter. Walking towards it, one will eventually encounter the barrier separating it from this dimension and find themselves whisked several hundred feet away, dazed and confused as to how they got there. Similarly, it’s impossible to leave the castle; walking towards the trees and mountains and ocean in the distance simply causes one to be teleported back to the center. The only way to travel to and from it is with the help of an Astral Dragon.

Corrin doesn’t like going to the castle. Day and night occur, but time does not actually move; you can spend weeks there and emerge to find not a minute has passed in the real world. It’s disorienting, leaves him and others nauseous and unsettled. And it’s worthless as a hiding spot because the situation you’re hiding from won’t have changed at all when you leave—otherwise he would have hid out there when he’d first fled Hoshido and Nohr. The only thing it’s good for is resting up after a long, arduous battle, free from threat, like this one.

Lilith teleports their entire army into the castle’s grand hall effortlessly, a mass of sweaty bodies, animals, and weapons dropping a few inches to the ground. Immediately, Felicia, Jakob and Flora peel off to start taking care of everyone, despite their own exhaustion—Jakob heads to the kitchens to cook, Felicia goes off in search of bedding, and Flora begins collecting everyone’s weapons and armor for cleaning. Corrin makes a mental note to give the three of them a raise later.               

Slowly, people come alive. Mozu, Charlotte and Peri stagger off after Jakob to assist with food. Oboro, Hinata and Effie follow Felicia. Kaze, Saizo and Benny start helping Flora. The grand hall can’t hold the thousands of soldiers with them, so most of the Nohrians and Hoshidans trickle out into the courtyard to set up camp there, leaving Corrin’s private army of forty or so and some of the elite soldiers from the main army inside.

Those left in the hall set up a station for the wounded. Everyone with even a bit of healing expertise migrates towards it, staves and rods ready as they receive the injured. Those who can’t move at all are carried over by their friends and made a priority. The charges on healing staves are precious and need to be preserved, so scarves, dresses, capes, and other loose pieces of clothing are ripped and tied around wounds that don’t need magic. Potions are passed about, every last drop of precious healing liquid squeezed from the bottles. Corrin shakes himself out of his tired daze, noticing that Azura has disappeared, and looks over his injuries—his worst wounds are his ribs and hip. He’d dodged left when he should have gone right and gotten a club slammed into his side for his trouble, crushing both armor and bone. He’s been having difficulty walking and breathing ever since, so he hobbles over and lets Orochi patch him up. He grimaces as the bones knit back together and the pressure on his side vanishes, leaving just phantom pain behind.

When that’s done, Corrin peels off his armor and places it on the ground for Flora to collect. He’s a bit more reluctant to part with Omega Yato, but he knows it needs to be looked over for damage. At the very least the bloodstains should be cleaned off. _Stains left from the blood of a god,_ he thinks as he stares at them, a shiver of both reverence and fear passing through him. He’d always thought the gods were unkillable—what does it mean that this one wasn’t?

Pushing such questions from his mind for later, he manages to leave Omega Yato behind, but keeps his dragonstone. Someone shoves a fresh set of clothes into his arms and shoes him off into an area to change, which he does. When he emerges he grabs and scarfs down a bowl of stew. Then he drops face-first onto a random bedroll, his freshly-healed side screaming in protest. His eyes close, then shoot open when he feels a warm body press against him, slender hands wrapping around his waist and long hair tickling his cheek.

 “Azura?” he murmurs questioningly, peering over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of her. He’s surprised by her boldness; she’s hardly uncaring, but she usually reserves her affections for private moments. She’s not a public person, especially not for something as bold as climbing into bed with him.

She’s quiet, but he can feel her embarrassment rolling off her. “I’m tired and you’re warm,” she finally mumbles. “And I just…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says gently. He gets that need for reassurance after a battle, that need to know a person is still there, solid and real. That need to feel flesh under your hands and be certain that, for today at least, you didn’t lose someone you loved. “I don’t mind. I was just surprised.” Gingerly, taking care for his side, he turns over to face her, cupping her cheek. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

The corners of her mouth turn upwards. “Me too.”

Corrin closes his eyes as she starts to run her fingers through his hair. He’s safe, he’s in the arms of the woman he loves, and he’s had a _very,_ very long day. Sleep doesn’t so much embrace him as it does grab him and yank him down.

* * *

When Corrin wakes in the morning, his brain is still sluggishly disconnecting from the jagged nightmare images of the fight, and he thinks for a terrifying moment that killing Anankos had been just a dream. But then he registers the mouthful of blue hair, the leg wedged between his, and the light puddle of drool on his shoulder, and relief shoots through him; Azura’s presence here and now means the events of yesterday really had happened. The prince gently disentangles himself from his beloved, careful not to disturb her. He smiles when he sees how haphazardly she’s sprawled out—he would never have pegged her for a messy sleeper. It’s adorable.

Most of the army is waking, stirring and slowly preparing to follow routine, still shell-shocked from the fight before. His stomach grumbling, Corrin heads over to the kitchens to find Jakob there, stirring a pot of something delicious-smelling, as if he’d been there the whole night. Knowing him, he may have.

“Be sure to take a break,” Corrin reminds him; the silver-haired man gives him an absent nod, an unconvincing promise, and a plate of bread and salted fish. Corrin wanders into the dining room and slumps into a chair, mechanically moving the food to his mouth. Outside, he can see the sun high in the sky, and hear the buzz of activity from the bulk of the forces outside—it looks like they slept through most of the morning. Or, well, what qualifies for morning here.

Gradually, his siblings appear in the entrance with their own breakfasts, joining him at the table. Azura is the last to arrive, her hair sticking up wildly every which way. She drops into the chair besides his, lacing their fingers together surreptitiously beneath the table. For a long time, they just eat.

“So what happens now?” Elise finally asks, a yawn cutting off the end of her sentence. Like all the healers she’d stayed up late and risen early to tend to her patients; she’s clearly exhausted. The blonde sways in her chair, almost toppling over—Ryoma, who is seated next to her, reaches over and gently props her back up.

“I imagine we’ll all go our separate ways,” Takumi murmurs. He looks just as bad as Elise; there are dark circles under his eyes, and Corrin vaguely remembers being yanked awake in the middle of the night by the sounds of Takumi thrashing in his sleep. His poor brother always has terrible nightmares. “Try to make reparations to Nestra for that fight in Cyrkensia. Patch things up between our countries. You know, whatever happens after a war.”

“How d-do we even start?” Sakura hesitantly asks. Like Elise, she hadn’t gotten much sleep and is struggling to stay awake. “I-I don’t know the first thing about after-war efforts…”

“None of us do,” Leo reassures her. “We’ll just have to do our best.”

Ryoma turns to Corrin, concerned. “What are you two going to do, Corrin, Azura? You both have a claim for the Vallite throne, but with Valla destroyed—”

“Actually,” Lilith hesitantly pipes up, having drifted over on her little crystal ball, “that’s not strictly true, my lord.”

Xander’s eyes narrow, and he places his cup of coffee down sharply. “What do you mean?” Corrin muffles a snort—the memory of his Nohrian siblings’ reactions, particularly Xander’s, when they’d learned that Lilith the maid and Lilith the dragon were the same person never fails to make him chuckle, even at inopportune times.

“The land of Valla is destroyed, yes, but the people still live. Some, like Lady Arete, Lady Mikoto, and their children, escaped and sheltered in Hoshido or Nohr. But not everyone was so fortunate; those who couldn’t escape and weren’t killed were captured, taken as slaves.”

“What use would Anankos have for slaves?” Hinoka asks, brow furrowed.

Lilith’s gaze drops to the ground. “Fodder,” she says sadly. “Training fodder for his soldiers, replacements for the ones he lost. Anankos was a sadist, too; sometimes he’d have them killed for entertainment when he was bored. He’s dead now, but thousands of Vallites are still trapped there in their slave pens.”

“We can’t leave them there,” Corrin says immediately. “We have to go back.”

The rest of those gathered agree swiftly, though Camilla raises a valid concern. “What are we going to do with them, sweetie? This is an entire population of people we’re talking about; we can’t just drop them into Hoshido or Nohr and expect everything to be fine.”

“So we don’t,” he says, the gears of his brain turning. “Azura and I are the heirs to Valla, right? We could…forge a new kingdom. A second Valla. Start anew.”

She stiffens beside him and he blanches, wondering if he’d said something wrong. But she doesn’t speak up as his elder brothers exchange thoughtful looks.

“Hoshido has plenty of land,” Ryoma muses. “All of it good for crops and living. It wouldn’t be a hassle to give some of it up to help refugees.”

“I’d be willing to offer land as well,” Xander nods. “It won’t be easy, of course—we have to be coronated first, and I doubt the people living there will be happy to have a new monarch, nor sharing a country with former enemies…” He snorts. “But nothing in life is ever easy.”

Corrin exhales. “I appreciate that, both of you.” He’d been toying with an idea, about the Vallites and this castle, but it’s a relief to have a back-up in case something goes wrong.

“Where will the Vallites stay in the meantime?” Hinoka queries.

“Here,” Corrin states, and they blink in surprise.

“Corrin,” Leo finally says, drily, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but time stands still here. We can’t exactly wait for Xander and Prince Ryoma to be crowned and for the negotiations to finish.” He pauses. “Actually, how are we supposed to leave Valla at all? Lilith can only transport us back to where we came from, and the way through the canyon is closed."

He smiles. “I know. Don’t worry, though, I spoke with Lilith and Azura ahead of time to ensure we had a way to leave. And we do, otherwise I would have told everyone that coming down into Valla meant staying forever. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Oh, not _that_ again,” Takumi gripes, and everyone laughs.

* * *

They spend the rest of the morning mapping out a plan. Lilith warns them that while Anankos’s undead soldiers had all died with him, he still has a few human agents about. She doubts they’ll stir up trouble—most had served him out of fear, not devotion—but there’s no need for foolish risks. So they’ll send a small scouting party back into Valla to find the slaves, large enough to be safe, but small enough to move quickly.

Xander and Ryoma are staying to control the main bulk of the armies--the Hoshidans and Nohrians have been getting along better, but nobody wants to take the chance that their behavior was only enforced by the presence of their crown princes. Camilla and Hinoka are staying as well to finish recovering from their injuries, but Leo and Takumi are in good enough shape to come along. Finally, Corrin gently tells his younger sisters to go back to bed and get some sleep, much to their gratitude.

Corrin heads into the main room searching for volunteers. Silas, Kaze, Mozu and Felicia all immediately step forward. He’d hoped Gunter would come as well, but the aged old knight just keeps his gaze low when Corrin address his soldiers, and disappointment thrums through the prince. Odin, Niles, Hinata and Oboro refuse to let their lieges go back into that dead land without them, so they demand to come as well, and with Corrin, Azura and Lilith that’s a sizeable search party. They just need to find the Vallites—once they do, Lilith will be able to teleport everyone back to the castle. If they run into danger they can’t handle beforehand, she can again snatch them back.

Lilith opens the portal. Corrin takes a deep breath and makes some last-minute checks, making sure that his armor is tightly fastened on him and that Omega Yato is secure in its sheath—he’s glad the miniature saws whirring along its blade shut down when he wills it. It would be troublesome if they didn’t, since he’d have to carry it unsheathed all the time. “Right. Back into Valla, then.”

He just hopes they’re prepared for what comes after. Not just the rescue, but after everything.


	2. Chapter 2

 They return to the battlefield to find it exactly as they left it; devastated slabs of land, deep scars in the ground, and the sky a dark void. The sudden shift from late morning to late evening is jarring, and even though they’ve done this plenty of times, Azura still has to reorient herself with deep breaths.

“This way,” Lilith says, already floating back towards Gyges.

They follow, the mages throwing up small balls of light to illuminate the way. Azura trails at the back, keeping her lance at the ready. She notices that while Corrin is ahead of her, his head is angled slightly to indicate he’s watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she knows he wants to talk about her reaction at the meeting. But that’s a subject she’d rather not tackle at the moment, so she does what she always does: reverts to avoid mode, keeping to the rear of the group. _Don’t acknowledge a problem and maybe it’ll go away._

Rebuilding and ruling Valla, he’d said. The problem is, Azura doesn’t _want_ to rule. She’s not comfortable leading people, or being looked to as a leader. She needs to tell him this, she knows, but fear of disappointing him, of losing him, glues her mouth shut. _Later. I’ll tell him later. When we aren’t in the middle of a mission._

The battle had not occurred too far from the castle, but it still takes them twenty minutes to get back to it. Anankos had ripped up most of the ground in the fight, and they have to navigate from one floating isle to the next before they can return to the throne room. As they pass through one ruined hall after another, stepping carefully over or around the rubble in their way, the songstress gazes at the walls, trying hard to remember living here and coming up blank. She was just so little when Valla fell; she only has hazy sensations, not even memories really, of stone walls and grass beneath her feet. They don’t see any of the undead puppet soldiers, but once in a while a stray Faceless crosses their path and is quickly dispatched. Azura supposes it’s not a surprise—Anthony had been transformed into a Faceless, so the same fate may have befallen Anankos’s other servants.

That makes a horrible thought occur to her, and she shudders. _Have all the Faceless we’ve fought once been human? I thought the Nohrians were responsible their creation, but could Anankos have had a part in it? If so, were the Nohrians aware of what making those things entailed?_

Finally, after an hour of traversing the ruined castle and the area outside it, their journey comes to an end as they descend the crest of a hill. Before them the island comes to an abrupt end, with a rickety bridge, darkness beckoning beneath it, attached to the sheer face of the cliff. On the far end of the bridge is an island with high, towering walls, visible as far as the eye can see and covered with carvings of Anankos. The only visible entrance is a small gate. From this distance it looks only like a slit in the stone.

“Is that where the slaves are?” Corrin asks, lifting a hand to his brow and squinting. Evening had turned to night during their walk, and the full moon is rising in the sky, painting him in shades of silver. Azura feels the back of her neck prickling, like someone is watching her, but when she turns sees only a flicker of movement on the hill they came down from, and nothing else.

Lilith nods, gesturing with her tail towards the bridge and the place beyond. “The walls completely circle the island, trapping them inside. On the inside, they’re too high and smooth to be scaled, and Anankos used to station archers on the battlements to shoot anyone who tried to escape. All the water on the island was drained so the Vallites couldn’t flee through it. There are no amnesties, no comforts; they have to survive in the wilderness as best they can. Anankos called the place Fort Tartarus, but the slaves preferred ‘the fortress of sorrows’…”

“How do you know all this, Lilith?” Takumi asks suddenly, “First about the existence and purposes of these slaves, then their location and living conditions, now what they called their prison? That doesn’t strike me as well-known information, especially since Azura here was apparently unaware.”

She hesitates, tail twitching. “I…would prefer not to say why, at the moment.”

His orange eyes narrow. “So you have something to hide?”

“Takumi!” Corrin objects as the dragon seems to wilt, head drooping as she curls around her crystal ball, “You can’t really think Lilith’s up to something, can you?”

“I didn’t say that. Just that it’s _odd_ she’s so privy to what went on in his ranks.”

“Listen,” the albino presses beseechingly, “Lilith’s served us faithfully the whole war, and she served me for years before that. Let’s not turn on her now because of whatever may or may not be in her past.”

His brother sighs. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here, okay? I just want to be prepared for anything. There’s a phrase in Hoshido about defeat being most bitter when victory is snatched right out of your grasp, and I just want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Lilith takes a deep breath, raises her head, and floats over, nudging Takumi’s head with her nose. “I understand your concerns,” she says gently. “But believe me when I say my only priority is the safety and happiness of Lord Corrin and his friends. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Takumi ponders her for another moment, then nods, his posture relaxing. “…Alright. I’ll trust you on this.”

They carefully start to trickle across the bridge, going one at a time so Lilith can swoop down and grab someone if they fall (she’s surprisingly strong, according to Corrin, his mouth tight with memories of his first time at the Bottomless Canyon). Azura sees now why Lilith had warned them to leave their mounts in the astral plane; the wood is old and aged, and she can practically feel it bend beneath her feet. She wouldn’t be willing to trust it to hold the weight of a horse.

She steps daintily onto the other end and turns, awaiting Felicia as she begins her sojourn across. She’s almost made it, is practically within arms’ reach, when, with a loud splintering sound, the plank beneath her foot crumbles, sending the maid tipping dangerously over the empty space below, arms windmilling. “W-whoa!”

Fast as a snake, Azura snatches Felicia’s arm and pulls her forward onto solid ground. “Be careful!”

The Nohrian presses a hand over her heart, gasping slightly. “Ha…ha…that was scary. T-thanks, Lady Azura! It would have been really ironic if I survived fighting a god only to die because I fell off a bridge, right?” She lets out a nervous, cracked laugh.

On the far end the rest of the group has taken several half-steps forwards, as though to try and save her from far away, and Niles has started to pull out his Rescue stave. Lilith, who had begun to swoop to grab Felicia, floats back to her position over the bridge. Mozu’s dark brown hair bobs over to them as she races across the bridge, jumping nimbly across the new gap. “Are you okay?” the former farm girl asks breathlessly.

“I think I’m a little hysterical after everything that’s happened,” the salmon-haired woman squeaks. Azura drops her arm and steps away, letting those who are good at comfort handle Felicia, and that’s the only real scare they have; everyone else crosses safely.

The gate isn’t hard to open; the lever operating the door is on their side of the wall, and in a few short minutes the party is entering Fort Tartarus. The name “fort” is a misplaced one; the entire island is surrounded by outer walls, but as Lilith said Anankos hadn’t bothered constructing inner walls, a floor, or a roof, leaving the island’s natural vegetation to grow wildly. It’s more of a giant animal pen than a proper building.

As they start walking towards where Lilith says the slaves usually congregate at night, Felicia joins Azura at the back of the group. “U-um, Lady Azura?”

“What is it?” She does her best not to sound too curt, but from Felicia’s flinch she doubts she succeeded.

“Um, I just wanted to thank you again for the rescue at the bridge.”

She shrugs. “It was no trouble. Anyone would have done the same.”

“Oh, I know, but still. And I also wanted to say…I think you’re really brave. It, um, it must have been hard, knowing all about Valla and not being able to do anything about it. If it had been me I don’t think I could have gone on hoping for a better future!”

She’s not used to compliments. Awkwardly she just nods, trying to appear gracious and dismissive at the same time. Instead, Felicia takes that as an invitation to continue talking.

“Maybe, since the war’s over now, we could hang out more? I mean, you and Lord Corrin are together, and I serve him, so we’ll probably be seeing each other a lot. It’d probably be a good idea to try and be friends.”

 “That’d be nice,” Mozu pipes up, glancing over her shoulder. “Uh, sorry to eavesdrop. I…I thought about going back to Hoshido after the war, but…it wouldn’t really be home anymore, with my village gone. And I like the people in our army. I could see myself sticking around, making a new life in this new Valla.”

“I’m sure the presence of a certain someone has nothing to do with it, hmm?” Felicia teases, and the brunette flushes.

“Well...maybe just a little.”

“Oh, don't be ashamed! I think you two are a cute couple.” Azura’s vague hopes of sneaking away while they’re distracted are dashed as Felicia turns back to her with a hopeful smile. “So what do you say, Lady Azura?”

 _Let’s be friends_ are some of the most terrifying words she’s heard in her life. She hasn’t really spoken to Felicia since the first trip to Valla, and she can’t begin to imagine what they’d do or talk about now. Short of Corrin and her sisters, she tries not to interact with the army. She just can’t bring herself to open up to or trust people, not after what she’d seen and what had happened to her in the Nohrian courts. Logically, she knows not everyone is like that, and it can get terribly lonely at times, but still…

“I’ll consider it,” the songstress finally answers, and hurries on ahead before they can try and drag anything else out of her.

* * *

The Vallites are gathered in the center of the island, beneath a canopy of trees. There’s a whole sea of them, huddled together for warmth in clumps around many small, makeshift fires, shivering in the chill night air, and Azura’s heart twinges with pity as she takes them in. Many have the same golden eyes she does, their ratty hair ranging in colors from Hoshidan dark to Nohrian blonde and anything in-between. Their faces are thin and malnourished, and they turn in surprise and a bit of fear when they see the group emerging from the underbrush. Corrin steps forward and the ones closest to him shrink away.

“My name is Prince Corrin of Valla, Hoshido and Nohr,” he announces. “I’m here to tell you Anankos is dead and you’re free.”

If he’d expected rapturous applause, he was to be disappointed. The Vallites look at each other, a range of emotions from skepticism to shock to anger on their faces.

“They don’t believe us,” Azura hears Oboro murmur to Hinata.

Refusing to be cowed by their silence, Corrin tries again. “Is there a representative among you I can speak to?”

The crowd of slaves shifts uneasily in their seats. Then, from one of the groups, an old man who looks to be in his mid-forties rises. His pale green hair is receding from his forehead and streaked with silver, and his clothes are handmade. “I can speak for us,” he says clearly. “And I would ask you to present something to substantiate your claims. We have little hope or faith to spare these days.”

“Will this blade be proof?” Corrin asks, drawing and holding out Omega Yato. The blades whir to life and the sword bursts into flame, allowing the Vallites to see it in all its glory. It’s an impressive display.

None of the slaves are moved, and Azura recalls how hard information on the Fire Emblem had been to come by. Her mother, Valla’s _queen_ , hadn’t told her about it, and she’d had access to the best books and information in the kingdom; if she hadn’t known about the Fire Emblem, what were the chances the rest of Valla would?

Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she pushes forward, pulling her pendant off and holding it out. The Vallites’ eyes snap to her, and excited murmurs start to swell over them like a wave when they see what’s dangling from her hand. She feels herself start to sweat under their hungry gazes. “I am Princess Azura of Valla,” she says, looking at a spot above the crowd’s heads, “And this pendant was the heirloom of the royal family, passed down to me by my mother, Queen Arete.”

The old man inhales sharply, staring at the pendant reverently. “May I?” Hesitantly, Azura walks over and gives it to him, and he turns it over in his hands, examining it closely. “Yes…yes, this is more than sufficient proof. The queen was wearing this same pendant about her neck when she fled; there is no other like it in the world, and no chance Anankos would tolerate its existence if he had it.”

He returns it to her and bows. “My name is Nestor, Your Highnesses. I was a chamberlain at Castle Gyges before ‘King’ Anankos came.” He spits the word _king_ out like a curse. “Forgive us our wariness; we noticed the disappearance of our guards, but we weren’t certain it wasn’t some new sadistic trick or game of Anankos’s.”

Azura quietly retreats, letting Corrin take over. He smiles in turn at Nestor. “It’s no problem. We’ve had our own run-ins with his cruelty.” A shadow passes over his face, and Azura knows he’s thinking of his mother. She’s still a bit shaken by the encounter with hers, and she’s had days to recover from it; his fight with Queen Mikoto had occurred just yesterday.

Nestor turns to Corrin curiously. “You said your name was Prince Corrin? And that you’re a Vallite prince? Does that mean you’re a second son of Princess Mikoto, a younger brother to Prince Kamui?”

“No, I am Kamui, but the name I prefer is Corrin,” he answers.

Nestor raises an eyebrow. “And you said you’re a prince of Hoshido _and_ Nohr as well? There must be quite the tale behind that. But there will be time to hear it later. The last time I saw you, Prince Corrin, you were but a newborn, and Princess Azura a toddler. I’d feared one or both of you had died when I saw the abominations Anankos made of our queen and her sister.” His yellow eyes are a bit bright with tears, and he swallows. “I am glad to know those fears were misplaced.”

He takes a moment to compose himself, then turns back to the Vallites, his voice a bit heavy but joyful. “My people, rejoice! Yesterday we were slaves, but today we are free! Our prince and princess are returned to us! They have overthrown the tyrant Anankos, and our nation shall live again!”

Azura’s skin prickles with discomfort at the hope and expectation in his voice, at the ragged cheer that rises up over the crowd and the way the Vallites look at her the way they do Corrin, with an almost manic kind of hope and deference. Like she’s some kind of savior.

She isn’t. She really isn’t. Corrin is; he’s the one who can talk to people and get them to work together. All she’d done was point him in the right direction. But as the crown princess, the Vallites will be expecting her to reassure them and bless them with her presence, and the thought of addressing so many, on a constant basis, makes her blood chill. Singing is one thing, but public speaking is another entirely.

Inadvertently, the memory Corrin’s words that morning, _“we can rebuild and rule Valla together”_ rise up again, and she has to force down another wave of nausea at the very thought. Being a leader _terrifies_ her. She does not do well with crowds, with people, and hearing Corrin suggest that she become one hurt, even if she knew he didn’t intend it.

No, she really does not want to be looked to as a queen.

* * *

Lilith brings them all back to the castle and immediately retreats to her shrine to rest, saying that teleporting two large forces in technically the same day is exhausting. Once again, the snap back to daylight makes Azura dizzy.

The “afternoon” is passed taking a census of the slaves and settling them in. The number of surviving Vallites is close to 15,000, barely enough for a city, and they are desperately in need of proper food, clothes and medical care. It is only by the magic of the astral plane that they are able to obtain enough supplies for them—Corrin, Azura and the royal siblings manipulate the plane with Dragon Veins, as Lilith had shown them, to create what the Vallites need.

Finally, as the “day” draws to a close, Corrin calls together a meeting between the three nations’ royalty. Azura normally prefers to avoid such things, but as crown princess of the soon-to-be-reconstructed Valla, it’s her duty to attend. Nestor is there too, having taken to the role of liaison between the Vallite slaves and the prince quite well.

No sooner are they seated then Leo jumps straight to business, mind ever on the important things. “So how are we going to leave? Only Vallites can travel through water, and the canyon is sealed.”

Corrin leans forward on his elbows. “Lilith filled you all in on the history of this place, right?”

“It was a real place transported to the astral plane centuries ago,” Camilla sums up.

“That’s right. Well, she said she would beseech the leader of the Astral Dragons, Moro, to remove this place from the astral plane and return it to our world, taking us with it.”

“That’s what you meant when you said the Vallites would stay here,” Hinoka realizes, understanding dawning on her face. “You’re going to make this castle and its land the new Valla.”

“That’s right,” Corrin says with a nod. “Castles aren’t exactly easy to come by, so I may as well use the one I already have, right? I was worried about whether the surrounding area could hold the entire population, which is why Nohr and Hoshido’s contributions of land will be much appreciated.”

“So where on the map was this place?” Ryoma asks, clasping his hands together, “I had some ideas about what land to gift, but it’s no good if it’s too far from here…”

Corrin pulls out a map, pointing out where Lilith estimates the castle was, and those gathered launch into a discussion about the Hoshidan-Nohrian land nearby. The castle was by the sea, and soon new, tentative borders are drawn out; Nohr would give up land from the north and east of Mount Garou to the Bottomless Canyon, and Hoshido from the north and west of their borders with Izumo and Mokushu. The mention of Mokushu prompts Corrin to recall Shura’s desire to rebuild Kohga, and Ryoma promises to broach the subject of returning his land to him later.

Nestor tells them about what skills the Vallites have to offer, so they can start planning out what Valla can produce and what will need to be traded; Anankos had mostly had them repairing or making weapons and armor for his soldiers, so nearly all are decent blacksmiths. They also have much experience with foraging, hunting, weaving, and making clothes, since they’d been left to fend for themselves. Lastly, they finalize the plans to stockpile supplies for a few “days” before beseeching Moro, and the war council disperses. Before Azura can lose her nerve, she approaches Corrin; his desire to rule and her desire to _not_ rule is a hurdle in their relationship, and it’s best to resolve it right away. “Can I speak to you?”

His face brightens, the way it always does when she’s around, and her heartbeat pounds in her ears. “Sure.” They linger in the room until everyone else leaves, then he takes her hand and sits down next to her at the table. “I’ve wanted to talk to you myself. Are you alright? You seemed upset at the meeting this morning, then you barely spoke to me all day.”

 “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.” She trails off, licking her lips, and he waits patiently.

“What you suggested this morning…I didn’t like it,” she finally says, and he blinks, taken aback.

“What, about rebuilding and ruling together? I don’t see why—”

“I don’t want to be queen of Valla,” she says clearly.

“Oh.” He looks completely crestfallen. Azura swallows, already regretting speaking, regretting hurting him.  He slips his hand out of hers and stares down at his knees. A heavy silence settles.

Corrin sounds choked when he speaks. “So, um, what’s going to happen to us then?”

“I…what do you mean?”

“Well, I figured—if you don’t want—I mean, I guess you won’t have a reason to stick around…”

Azura frowns. _What makes him think I don’t want to stay?_ She plays their conversation back, searching for what she said to make him draw that conclusion. _I didn’t like it… Rebuilding and ruling together…I don’t want to be queen of Valla… I don’t want to be queen—_

And instantly, she feels dumb. _Oh, you foolish woman, of course—_

“No,” she stresses, reaching out to take his hand again, and his head snaps up. “No, that’s not—gods, Corrin. I _love_ you. It’s not _marrying_ you that’s the problem—” and doesn’t that image do all sorts of weird things to her, makes her heart skip beats and her belly churn with anticipation, “I’d be _overjoyed_ to marry you, it’s—it’s the ruling. I’m not comfortable leading people.”

She’d never given much thought to what would come _after_ the war; truth be told she’d expected to be dead of her curse. But of course Corrin would want to marry her, and of course she’d want to accept.

He looks inordinately relieved. “Oh! Oh. That’s good, I thought…I thought you didn’t want me.”

The guilt worsens, and she moves her hands to cup his face, gazing into his eyes beseechingly. “Corrin, no. Never think you aren’t enough for me. If anything, I worry about not being enough for you.”

“Azura—”

“You see why this could be a problem, right? I don’t want to rule, but if I married you, I’d have to.”

He shakes his head earnestly. “Says who? What if, instead of me marrying you and becoming King-Consort, you abdicate the throne to me, then marry me and become Queen-Consort? I’d be the one handling the public speaking, and you could do the behind-the-scenes stuff. Isn’t that pretty much what we did with the army, just on a bigger scale?”

She pauses; she hadn’t considered that. Her mother had always stressed on her that a queen’s duty was not just to protect her people, but to _know_ them as well. Later she’d seen Mikoto’s example, how she often went into Shirasagi’s castle town to speak with her citizens or get involved in public events. And it was the thought of doing those that terrified her.

But they’d been Queen or Queen-Regent, rulers in their own rights. A Queen-Consort or King-Consort didn’t share those sorts of duties. They primarily worked from the castle, advising their reigning spouse and handling paperwork. And doing that sort of thing, never having to face more than a few people at once? That sounded magnificent.

“That actually sounds nice,” she admits. Then, feeling playful, she winks and adds, “I’ll be expecting a better proposal than that when the time comes, however.”

He smiles brilliantly. Corrin lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ll be sure to come up with one that exceeds your expectations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that’s why I really wanted to keep MyCastle—so Corrin would actually have a place to live! I could have found a way for them to leave Valla without it, but castles could take up to twenty years to build. Corrin’s kids would be adults by the time it was done! And yeah, I could have had them use magic to accelerate its construction, but the thing is, the more power I give magic, the more restrictions I have to place on it. Otherwise you start getting questions like “if Nohr has grow-a-castle magic, why can’t they grow food?” and conflict in general becomes harder to build when magic is a no-strings-attached fix-all for everything.
> 
> To see a self-made map with the planned borders of Valla (including borders for all the countries, since IntSys was lazy this game), look here: http://theapocryphalone.tumblr.com/post/146721978796/my-attempt-at-drawing-the-borders-for-the
> 
> Name meanings (in which Apo wants to show off):
> 
> Nestor is the name of the aged king of Pylos in The Iliad and The Odyssey. He often acted as an advisor to the Greeks, especially young and upcoming Greek kings.
> 
> Tartarus is the name of the worst prison/deepest pit of hell in Greek mythology. It was a place of eternal suffering and, notably, divine torment. It was supposed to be reserved for only the wickedest of souls, but given Anankos’s view on humans, he’d be the type to just throw everyone in there regardless of whether they deserved it or not, so the name seemed appropriate.


	3. Chapter 3

“More paperwork, Corrin.”

Corrin is barely able to hold back a groan as Silas drops a stack of papers, almost as thick as his arm, in front of him. “Thank you, Silas.”

The room he’d hastily declared his office is a mess. Papers are stacked all over his mahogany desk. Blankets and bedding fill a far corner, where he has slept for the past few days. Sunlight filters in through the window (shut, of course, a breeze coming in and blowing everything everywhere would be just what he needed), a poor substitute for actual warmth. Broken quills, used inkpots and candy wrappers are littered about. It feels like forever since he’s been outside.

“Don’t lie,” his friend chuckles, “Thanking me for that is the last thing on your mind.”

Corrin smiles wryly, eyeing the bundles of paper with something similar to resignation. “You’re not wrong.”

He never thought being king would be so _exhausting._ Well, not really; this is just the beginning stages, the planning and preparations for being king. Ryoma and Xander promised that the workload would lighten significantly once setting Valla up was done and he had advisors to help him. He’s still disappointed that he hasn’t been able to spend much time with Azura, or his siblings, or settle things between him and Gunter as he’d hoped, though. There’s just so much to do.

Beyond the border lines, he needs to calculate the total population gained from Hoshido and Nohr, draw up a list of names of suitable advisers and councilors from said populace—“Don’t just give the positions to your friends from the war, sweetie,” Camilla warns him, “You need to make allies among your new Hoshidan/Nohrian citizens.”—and think of events to get the two halves accustomed to each other. And there are so many things he needs to know: potential incomes, imports, exports, food consumption, trade routes, _everything_ he took for granted growing up can be traced back to the work piled on his desk. He finds he has a perpetual headache these days.

Bless Lilith for her hoard of gold bars and for being willing to part with them. If not for her, Valla would have started its new life incredibly deep in debt. As is, they were still going to face monetary trouble; Ryoma had warned him that Nestra’s ruler was likely to hold primarily him accountable for repaying the damage done to Cyrkensia, since the old Vallite army had been the one to destroy it in the first place.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” he’d complained when he first heard that. “The population of the new Valla wasn’t even involved, and I was trying to _stop_ the invasion.”

“A king inherits the legacy of the one before him,” his brother had pointed out. “And unfortunately for you, Anankos’s legacy was one of crime and terror.”

Valla would keep its name, as the curse on it had broken with Anankos’s death, but he still needed to find a name for the city and castle, which would become its new capital. After scrambling about for a bit, since he hadn’t even thought about what he would call either, the city had been christened Elysium and the castle, Castle Avalon. Valla’s planned land was mostly in the south and middle of the continent, by the sea, the perfect place to profit off trade. The Bottomless Canyon was a dangerous place to traverse, so many trade roads went to the south, where it was thinnest, to skirt it. That happened to pass through Valla’s new territory; they’d make a good amount of coin operating as a trade hub. They also had control of the Hoshido-Nohr Sea, so they could also make money off harboring ships and ocean-related goods (though Xander had said he expected a discount, since giving that area up effectively landlocked Nohr, and Corrin had agreed).

“Corrin, there’s one more thing…”

Corrin blinks and lifts his head—he’d thought Silas had left. “What is it?”

The paladin hesitates. “Some of the men report feeling… _watched_ when they go into Valla,” he finally says. “It’s unnerving, least of all because even Kaden and Keaton can’t pinpoint whoever it is or where they are.”

They’ve been making runs into Valla, sending in excavation teams to try and recover anything they can. Books, paintings, sculptures, architecture, technology, furniture, clothes; a country wasn’t just a group of people, but their way of living, their culture and mannerisms. For Valla to ever live again, they had to salvage as much of the old as they could and fill in the missing gaps with the new. Not a lot had survived the twenty years of Anankos’s reign, but they were making progress.

The albino frowns. “I see. Do you think it’s those agents Lilith mentioned?”

Silas shrugs. “I don’t see who else it could be. Regardless, if it is them, they haven’t done anything.”

Corrin runs a hand through his hair. “Right…” he mutters, knowing he looks as frazzled as he sounds. “Chasing them is no good, they know the land better and if they have access to water, they’ll be able to flee instantly. And if they aren’t showing themselves, I don’t think there’s anything we can do other than warn everyone to stay on guard. Thanks for informing me.”

Silas studies him for a moment. “Okay, that’s it,” he finally announces with a shake of his head. “Corrin, you need to take a break. When was the last time you went outside?”

Before he can answer the door opens, and Azura steps inside. He could weep in relief at the sight of her empty arms, blessedly free of paper. She and Nestor have been helping him out when they can, and Azura will be taking over the brunt of the paperwork once they’re married (that thought, that memory of her _I’d be overjoyed to marry you_ still makes his heart trip over itself). But until then, the majority of it falls onto him.

“Not since yesterday evening, I believe,” Azura answers Silas, obviously having overheard. Stepping besides Corrin, she adds, “Go relax for a bit. I can handle things.”

He hesitates, eyeing the door with open longing. “Are you sure?”

She gives him a small smile. “Corrin, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just avoiding Felicia and Mozu?” he teases as he rises, stretching and cracking his back. He hasn’t had much time for himself lately, but he’s heard about their latest attempts to befriend the songstress. Secretly he can’t help but hope they’ll succeed; friends would do Azura some good.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, a little too dismissively, and he knows he’s right. He gently takes her arm and leans in close to her ear.

“I know how hard it is for you to be around people,” he murmurs lowly, as Silas looks away and pretends not to be there, “But they’re nice and they mean well. You should at least give them a chance.”

She pauses. “I’ll try,” she relents, turning to sit, and Corrin knows that’s all he can ask for. He presses a kiss to her cheek and turns, leaving Azura to the unenviable task ahead of her.

As they exit the room, Silas slaps him on the back good-naturedly. “Seriously, come on. Let’s see if we can’t rope Kaze and Jakob into drinks and a game of Hazard. It’ll be good for you.”

* * *

Of all the things Xander had been expecting to happen today, this was not one of them.

His day had been planned to go like so: run his drills, manage the affairs of the Nohrian side of the army, take a quiet lunch with his paramour, run more drills, and then complete writing all the appropriate letters for his coronation, to be sent once they left the Astral Plane. Then time with his siblings, dinner, more time with his beloved, and an evening spent finishing the book Elise had loaned him.

Those plans had been laid askew when, on his way back from his lunch, Laslow intercepted him, asking to speak. Xander was led to a side room in the main castle where Camilla, Leo, Selena, and Odin were waiting. Their trio of retainers had looked serious, even Odin, as they sat down. Then, taking turns, they began to tell the tale of their origins.

“That’s everything,” Laslow finally finishes, two hours later, his voice a bit hoarse from speaking for so long. “Well, everything about us, anyway. There are some things other people should hear first before deciding whether to share them or not.”

Xander nearly dismisses their story out of hand. Another world? Anankos tearing his soul out and said soul asking them for help? Crossing dimensions and time itself? Absolute rubbish. But he has known Laslow for several years now, and while Laslow can be a bit…out of touch with reality, at times (mostly in regards to his chances with women), he has never known him to be prone to fits of madness. He steeples his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees as he tries to sort out his thoughts.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Leo is the first to speak, his voice low and heavy.

The trio exchange glances. “We’re not sure,” Odin finally says, with an unusual lack of theatrics. “We miss home, but…at the same time, there are things and people here we’d miss if we left, too. And it’s not solely our decision to make.”

“We’ll stay long enough to help with reconstruction efforts. After that…” Selena shrugs, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

Xander checks to see his half-siblings’ reactions. Camilla’s mouth is tugging down into an unhappy moue and her eyes are heartbroken; she always gets too attached to people. Leo’s lips are drawn into a thin line, arms crossed and shoulders slightly hunched as if to protect himself. Xander’s own emotions are a jumble, incredulity and hurt and resignation tossing about like a capsized boat.

“Do you prefer Laslow or Inigo?” he finally asks the gray-haired man opposite, rolling the foreign name around on his tongue.

“Either is fine.”

“Laslow, then. Come with me.”

His retainer—his _friend_ —follows him out of the room silently, three steps behind and at his right, as always, in a movement so familiar and practiced it actually hurts. At the edge of Xander’s hearing range he can hear Camilla begin to talk, sounding choked, to Selena, and retreating footsteps indicating that Leo and Odin are going off somewhere else to speak privately. He inwardly sighs; he won’t be finishing those letters today, it seems. His mind just isn’t in the proper place for it.

Xander stops when they arrive in the castle gardens. It is always spring in the Astral Plane, and it shows. He gazes at the flowers, hydrangeas and violets and many others he does not know the name of. He idly wonders whether they will instantly wither and die when the garden is returned to its proper dimension—it should be getting close to summer by now. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since that fateful day on the Hoshidan plains.

“Why didn’t you say anything when we first arrived in Valla?” He finally asks, keeping a careful lid on his emotions.

Laslow quietly steps up to his side, extending a finger to gently stroke a petal. “We were going to, but as soon as we landed, Scarlet was killed, and all the whispers of a traitor started flying about. Who do you think the biggest suspects would have been if we’d said Anankos sent us, even a good version of him?”

It makes sense, even if he is a bit stung Laslow had thought he’d think so little of him. “Have you told Peri yet?”

The hero smiles involuntarily, and Xander can empathize with that, with how even the thought of that special woman can make your heart palpitate and your mouth curl upwards against your will. “Yes, I have. She took it well, all things considered.”

“I would have appreciated some earlier warning that I may be searching for new retainers.”

It’s half a jest, half a barb, and Laslow flinches, smile dropping from his face. “Well, like I said, we haven’t decided yet. Peri has a life here. Leaving means taking her away from that, and…” He shakes his head and sighs. “She’s not sure, and neither am I. It’s a very large dilemma. Either way, one of us loses something.”

Regretting his cutting words, Xander rests a hand on his shoulder, meeting Laslow’s gaze. “You’re a good man, Laslow. Not everyone would leave their homes behind to help a land they had no stock in.”

Laslow shrugs, his face growing red. For a self-proclaimed suave ladies’ man, he is very easily embarrassed. “Well…it seemed like the right thing to do,” he mutters modestly.

“I am quite glad you thought so,” the paladin answers dryly. “There are many times my siblings and I would have been lost without the help of you and your friends.”

Laslow nods absently. Hesitates. “So you aren’t angry?” He finally ventures.

The prince exhales. “No. Sad, of course, and hurt that you felt as though you couldn’t trust me in Valla, but not angry. I’ll only be angry with you if you die—haven’t I already told you that?”

His friend’s lips twitch upwards at the memory. “You have. After a series of, in my opinion, unfair punishments for harmless flirtations.”

“What you call harmless, others call offensive,” Xander parries. “But whatever decision you make, know that I am proud to have had you as a dear friend and retainer. Even if you choose to leave…just knowing you’re alive is enough.” He has lost too many people, siblings and retainers and his own parents, to stand losing another. That isn’t to say he wouldn’t miss Laslow and Peri if they left—he would. He would just prefer it to them dying.

He would prefer them staying to them leaving, of course, but that’s a given.

Laslow relaxes and nods. Then his expression morphs into one of mock horror. “Oh gods, we need to hug now, don’t we?”

Smiles are hard to come by for Xander, but he feels one creeping up on him nonetheless. “Come now, Laslow. Don’t tell me a hug scares you after fighting Anankos?”

His friend scoffs. “Hardly.” And with that, he steps forward, arms open. Xander is not accustomed to hugs; he used to give them to his siblings when they were younger, but as he got older he had to start cultivating the image of respect and authority. An image that left little room for familiarity and signs of physical affection. Still, he tries his best, giving Laslow an awkward, one-armed hug and thump on the back.

“What did you mean earlier, when you said ‘others’?” Xander asks as they begin the walk back to the castle. Laslow’s expression becomes something close to a grimace.

“It concerns your brother, Lord Corrin. There are quite a few things he should know...”

* * *

“I see.” Corrin frowns, staring at the three before him, having just finished listening to their tale. He leans back on his bed, the wooden floor of his treehouse creaking beneath it. “ _Anankos_ asked you to help and brought you here to do so…before being consumed by his madness?”

“That’s right.” Selena finishes speaking and sits back in her seat, arms crossed. Corrin examines the three of them.

He doesn’t know his siblings’ retainers as well as he should, all things considered. But he knows of their pasts—or rather, their mysterious lack of it. They’d ambushed him on his way back from the tavern after his outing with his friends, saying they had something important to tell him. Not particularly wanting to go back to the castle, as he’d been cooped up in it for hours at a time, he’d taken them to his treehouse instead to speak.

Some of what they told him lines up with what the Rainbow Sage’s texts had mentioned of Anankos—that he was once a benevolent being driven to madness by the infidelity of humans. The parts about them hailing from an entirely different world would be harder to swallow were he not currently living in a different dimension. So he is inclined to believe them, overall.

“Well, I’ll certainly ask the historians to write down what you’ve told me,” the prince finally says. “The Vallites aren’t particularly fond of Anankos at the moment, but I’ll do my best to see that he gets portrayed fairly.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Laslow says, bowing his head. “We didn’t know his good half for long, but he was a good man. He doesn’t deserve to be remembered as a completely evil lunatic.”

Corrin is silent. He’d felt sorry for the dragon when he’d learned of his story, but he still can’t imagine a kind Anankos. It’s just too hard when the memories of that giant being snarling in hate, of his twisted madness and sadism, are fresh in his mind.

He sighs, making to rise from the bed. “If that’s everything—”

“Nay, it is not! There is one more secret we must impart upon you!” Odin yells, the return of his bombastics marking the end of his somber mood. “We also bear the identity of your sire! The one whose loins you fruited from, the patriarch of your line! The ancient, primeval being who gave your LIFE! He—”

“Oh for the gods’ sake,” Selena interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Anankos was your father.”

“Selenaaaaaa!” Odin whines as Laslow turns to admonish her. “Selena! That’s no way to break the news to someone…”

Their voices are distant in Corrin’s ears as his vision swims. He blinks rapidly and his hands involuntarily clench around the bedsheets. His breath is coming in shorter gasps, and a remote corner of his mind notes he’s starting to hyperventilate.

_Anankos was your father._

Part of him isn’t really surprised. He’d noticed—he’d tried not to, but he’d _noticed_ —the resemblance between Anankos’s dragon form and his own. The shape of the head, the cervine legs and neck, the large chest and narrow hindquarters, the almost finger-like claws. He’d noticed, but he’d tried to brush it off, told himself Anankos despised humans too much to ever stoop to mating with one and that the similarities were to be expected. Corrin could shapeshift because he had a highly concentrated amount of the First Dragons’ blood; Anankos was one of the First Dragons. Why wouldn’t there be a resemblance?

Bile and horror rise in his throat in equal measures. If Anankos was his father, he must have had a human form to procreate with. But he couldn’t possibly have loved his mother, not with his hatred of humans, so that means—that means— “My mother…did he... _force_ himself on—”

“No!” The three cry in unison, breaking off their argument. “Gods, no,” Laslow says, shaking his head, and the air leaves Corrin’s lungs in relief. “Anankos—he _loved_ your mother, and she him. And he loved you. Remember what we said about him ripping his soul out and giving it physical form? That’s the version that met her.”

“And then he helped her, Lady Arete, you and Lady Azura escape Valla!” Selena adds. “Did you know what he wanted the most in the world was to hear you call him ‘Father’?”  That doesn’t sound like the wish of someone who doesn’t love his family, does it?”

No. No, it doesn’t. He takes a deep breath, calming himself down. He’d forgotten about the “splitting himself in two” part, in the deluge of shock and dismay at the revelation. _Though maybe they should have led with that, rather than letting me arrive at the worst conclusion._ But Anankos’s good half had been the one to encounter his mother, not his bitter, mad persona. He lets that comfort him.

Until, with a chill, he remembers the hate in the Vallites’s voices when they spoke of Anankos. The fear they’d had of his draconic power. _Would they hate me too, if they knew I was his son? Would they fear me if they saw my dragon form?_

_Would my family and friends? Would Azura?_

No, that’s absurd. His siblings, friends and beloved wouldn’t turn on him for his parentage. But the Vallites…his people…

“One other thing,” Laslow adds, pulling him out of his thoughts. “The Lilith we fought in Valla? We think she might be this same Lilith.”

Corrin pinches the bridge of his nose—he can feel his headache starting to return. “And what makes you say that? Don’t say it’s just because they’re both called Lilith, different people can bear the same name, you know.”

“It is not!” Odin exclaims. “But her lack of verbosity on her origins, mysterious knowledge of the Vallite slaves, and suspicious deflection of how she obtained such information gives us cause to believe something lies in her past. Something…NEFARIOUS! Something like, perhaps, once being Anankos’s daughter and servant.”

For a moment he wants to laugh and tell Odin he’s mistaken. Lilith, a servant of Anankos? She’s one of the quietest and nicest people he knows. She’s worked for him for years. But then he remembers the sadness in her eyes when she’d heard of Anankos’s death, and combined with the other points they’ve made, the idea suddenly doesn’t seem so ludicrous.

He closes his eyes. “Can I be alone for a bit?”

They affirm that of course he can, they understand he needs some time to process the news. He hears them rise from their seats, footsteps treading across the floor, and the door opening and shutting. Once he’s certain they’re gone, Corrin opens his eyes; his good mood from earlier the day has completely evaporated. _Lilith may be Anankos’s daughter…my sister…and as for me, I…_

One hand reaches for the chain around his neck, pulling out the dragonstone hanging off it from beneath his tunic. He holds it up and stares at it for a good long while, watching the light reflect off the clear blue facets, unable to shake the thoughts creeping in his head.

_If I didn’t have this dragonstone, could what happened to Anankos happen to me, too? Could it happen even with it?_

_Could I someday end up as mad as my father?_

* * *

Finally, the day comes when all the legislation that can be done without contacting the other countries is finished. It’s time for the barrier to fall. Lilith asks them to gather outside her little shrine, and Corrin lets the sound of the nearby spring babbling soothe his mind. The sky is awash in reds, oranges, and indigos. The area is mostly empty; there are still things to be done, and calling on Moro shouldn’t take very long, so there wasn’t any point in demanding a huge ceremony. Only Corrin and a few curious souls are gathered.

The prince is still mulling over the revelation of his father’s identity. It still seems surreal that Anankos could have loved his mother, and try as he might the image just won’t properly form in his imagination. So, as he waits for Lilith to begin, he turns to the green-haired steward beside him. “Nestor?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Did…did you know my father?”

Nestor nods slowly. “Not very well--I spent most of my time with Queen Arete, not Lady Mikoto and her husband--but yes. Lord Hydra was his name. Lady Mikoto found him unconscious by the lake one day and nursed him back to health. He was an amnesiac and a commoner, didn’t have anything to his name; their courtship and marriage caused quite a stir.”

 _So the Vallites don’t know Anankos was my father…I suppose it makes sense for Mother to have kept it a secret…although, was she even aware of who he was? Selena, Laslow, and Odin didn’t say_. “What was he like?”

“He was humble and kind, if soft-spoken, always cordial to everyone. He always worried about his lost past and whether he was worthy of your mother, but for the most part he was quite charming. People couldn’t help but be drawn to him. You take after him, if you don’t mind my impropriety in saying so.”

 _You take after him_ isn’t something he particularly wants to hear when he’s worried about possibly inheriting his father’s insanity. “I see.” Corrin falls silent. He tries again to imagine this kinder Anankos, and again all his mind can summon up is the hateful, raging dragon whose schemes had nearly killed everyone he’s ever loved. Hearing your father was a good man is hard to believe when all you knew, for a few scarce, battle-locked hours, was an insane tyrant.

 “There is a book of genealogy you could look at later, if you wished,” Nestor offers kindly, misinterpreting his silence. “One of the excavation teams brought it back a few days ago, one of the few books to survive the years. It should have a few passages about your parents.”

His throat tightens. “I would like that, thank you.”

Lilith finishes her preparation and floats out of the shrine, her scales glittering in the sun. She bows her head and presses her nose to the crystal ball she carries, eyes sliding shut. Then she speaks, letting her voice ring loud and clear.

“My kin, my blood, my gods… You have been most gracious to allow us to stay in your realm, and now I ask for one final favor. I ask that you return to us what was taken so long ago. Great Moro, I beg of you, right the wrongs taken in the First War so long ago. Deliver this place back to whence it came, and bring us with it in safety.”

Silence.

Then spiderweb cracks cross the sky, and with the sound of breaking glass, it shatters.

A blinding flash explodes across Corrin’s eyes. Instinctively he shuts them and raises an arm to protect his face, half-expecting actual shards to fall from above. Instead he feels water droplets pattering on his head and body, and tentatively cracks his eyelids open.

The air doesn’t taste stale anymore. The sunset is gone, replaced with dark gray stormclouds rolling overhead, precipitation pouring down from above in thick sheets. Those near him shriek in surprise and fumble for cloaks to shelter in. Thunder booms in the distance. It had never rained in the Astral Plane, and Corrin knows immediately they’re back in their dimension. He closes his eyes, relishing the cool water on his skin.

When he opens them and lowers his gaze he blinks in shock. Lilith is there, but in her human form, kneeling in the dirt. Fragments of glass lie around her, the crystal ball she used to hold completely broken. Her hands move, touching her braid, her face, in shock. “Moro…?” she whispers, before a furious shout cuts her off.

“YOU!”

Corrin starts at the sudden roar from the normally-reserved man to his left. Lilith scrambles backwards as Nestor stalks forward, his face as stormy as the sky above, wizened hands curled into fists.

“Hold!” the albino yells, interposing himself between them, arms spread to keep them separated. His head turns from the cowering Lilith to the enraged Vallite. “What’s going on? Do you know her, Nestor?”

“Do I know her?” The old man laughs, angry and bitter. “She was one of our overseers, personally responsible for our torment!” Spittle flies from his mouth alongside the words, and he glares at Lilith. “More than that, she was Anankos’s own _daughter_! His assassin, his general, his right-hand woman!”

Corrin blinks, water streaming from his hair into his eyes. _So Selena, Laslow and Odin were right._ He glances over his shoulder at her. _She is his daughter… my…sister…_

“Lilith, is that true?” He asks, if only to cover up his lack of surprise.

Lightning flashes, brief and bright. She fiddles with her braid, a quirk she always does when nervous. She does not speak, and her silence is the final confirmation he needs.

“Lilith,” he finally says, making his voice as loud and commanding as he can over the sound of the storm, “I want to speak to you about this immediately. For the rest of you—” he turns sharply, addressing the few hovering nearby, the Vallites among them pinning Lilith with angry gazes, “Leave her alone, at least until this matter is resolved.”

“Your Majesty—” Nestor begins to protest.

“I want to hear Lilith’s side before I make any judgments,” Corrin interrupts, stressing the next part of his sentence. “She saved my life and helped us win this war. She deserves to at least speak for herself.”

The Vallite frowns, knuckles turning white, but he does not dare argue with his soon-to-be king. Corrin turns to Lilith—his _sister_ —and says “I think we have a few things to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One thing that always bugged me about the SOL trio returning home in their epilogues was that their spouses had basically no say in it. They always gave up their duties, families, and friends in Fateslandia with no second thoughts, and that’s something that rarely if ever came up in the S-supports. It’s especially egregious in regards to the royals, because they always leave, but in Revelation SOL will stay with Corrin if S-ranked, despite the siblings having the exact same royal duties. And depending on which timeline the trio would return to, they’d arguably be better off staying in Fateslandia. New world whose inhabitants you’ve forged strong bonds with, or crappy, ruined, doomed-timeline world where none of your previous friends live?
> 
> Re: the Rainbow Sage’s texts: So Corrin mentions in his Revelation A-support with Azura that he’d looked through a bunch of texts for mention of Anankos. Problem is, this raises a bunch of questions: Where did he get these texts? Azura says they need to “go to Valla” to talk there, so apparently it occurs “canonically” before they jump into the Canyon, ie during the period Corrin is still considered a traitor and thus unlikely to have access to many resources. And why didn’t he just show these texts to Xander and Ryoma to convince them he might be telling the truth?
> 
> My answer was that he got the texts from the Rainbow Sage’s house. Their meeting occurs after his fight with his brothers in Cyrkensia, so he didn’t have the texts around to show them, and who else is more likely to have texts full of lore about Anankos than a fellow dragon? 
> 
> (Yes, I did put too much thought into a throwaway line in a support, especially given it’s nowhere near as convoluted as the “which timeline do SOL hail from?” mess, which has contradicting answers)
> 
> Name meanings:
> 
> Elysium is the name of the afterlife’s paradise in Greek mythology. It was originally only for great heroes, but eventually anyone could be permitted entrance if they were blessed by the gods. Corrin’s not really a god, but he is a demigod, so he’ll have to do ;) The name also works as a counterpart/contrast to Tartarus, the “hell” the Vallites were imprisoned in.
> 
> Avalon, or “isle of apples”, was a place of wonder, magic and peace in Arthurian legend. It’s most commonly known for being the place King Arthur was brought to for recovery from the wounds he earned in battle with his evil kin Mordred. Its location was secret—“removed from the world”—and it was the residence of the Lady of the Lake. Azura, anyone?
> 
> Hazard is an old European dice game. It was basically a medieval version of craps.


	4. Chapter 4

 

The shrine is silent when they step inside, except for the drumming of the rain on the roof. Corrin's eyes drift around from the moss on the walls to the stone pillars to the little altar, buying time to gather his thoughts.

"…I suppose you want an explanation," comes Lilith's low voice from behind him.

He turns. She's staring morosely at the ground, twisting her braid in her hands again and again. Her face and posture look as though she expects to be dragged off to the execution block.

"Not quite," he says. "Selena, Laslow and Odin already filled me in on everything about you. Everything about me too _,_ " he stresses, and her eyes widen. "I mostly wanted to get you out of there before things came to an altercation."

"I appreciate that. I should have known just avoiding those three wouldn't be enough, though…" she mumbles, mostly to herself, and a memory rises, of how Lilith would always make herself scarce on the rare occasion his siblings brought their retainers to the Northern Fortress. At the time her actions hadn't made sense, since he'd found them eccentric but relatively harmless, but knowing what he does now…

"Why did you never say anything?" He asks, and the question weighs around their necks like a hangman's noose.

Lilith's head bows, and she fiddles with the end of her braid again. "I was ashamed," she murmurs. "Of my past, and afraid of what your reaction would be. As for why I never spoke of our relation?" She smiles humorlessly. "I'm sure you can guess why. I can't imagine learning the identity of our father was pleasant for you."

"I'm dealing with it," he hedges. "It's not an easy thing to bear."

"So you understand why I wanted to protect you from the truth?" Her eyes, large and liquid gold—like Azura's, like the rest of the Vallites—search his, begging for absolution.

Corrin sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I—yes. I do." Part of him is upset she would hide the truth from him, but then again he's not sure how he would have taken it if she had told him during the war. It would probably have distracted him, and distractions can be fatal. At least now he has peace to ponder things in.

"But, Corrin, please don't think of our father as just a monster. The evil half was, but…his good half _loved_ us, Corrin, he really did. He even loved me, when he'd only known me for a day, and when I'd tried to kill him. Please understand that he wasn't all evil."

 _I'm trying,_ he wants to say, but doesn't. All his trying isn't amounting to anything so far. "Why did you decide to leave?" he asks instead.

She swallows. "Anankos always viewed me as a pawn. Useful, but expendable. Several years ago he sent me to assassinate his good half. That's where I encountered and battled Selena, Laslow and Odin, who were protecting the good Anankos. After he teleported them out of danger, our father told me to just do it." She rubs her eyes, voice growing choked. "He…he was willing to _die_ for me, so I wouldn't get in trouble. He'd only just learned of my existence, and he'd shown me more love and kindness in one day than the other Anankos did in my entire life.

"I…for the first time ever, I couldn't carry out an order. I couldn't kill him. Not when he loved me so much." Lilith rubs her eyes again. The back of her hand glistens with moisture when it comes away. "But the evil half, he knew, and he was furious. He…he tried to kill me, so the good half intervened, and…" She has to stop, visibly biting back a sob. Once she collects herself, Lilith continues, "Our father died protecting me from himself, and it was my fault. And that was when I knew I couldn't stay anymore. I couldn't keep doing what I'd been doing.

"I'd always known I had a brother—the evil Anankos made it perfectly clear that he valued you more than me, not that it meant much—and it just…seemed natural to try and protect you. I'm a full dragon, unlike you, so I can cross dimensions like Anankos. It wasn't hard to find the Astral Dragons and beseech them to hide me from him. Eventually I found my way into your service, and the rest you know."

She looks down, seeming not to notice the faint tears shimmering in her eyes. Swallowing, she finishes, "Moro told me, when I was first changed, that I would lose all my original powers until such a time it was safe for them to be returned to me. I think that's why my human form was restored to me—you'll never need me to bring you back to the Astral Plane, and I no longer need to hide from Anankos. So now I'm back to the way I once was. And I fully intend to try and make up to the Vallites for my wrongdoings…though I doubt I ever can."

Her story leaves Corrin's mind whirling, jumping from one piece of new information to the next. At a loss for words, he does the only thing that seems natural at the moment. He steps forward and hugs her. "I'm so sorry, Lilith," he murmurs "I know words are an insufficient balm for the kind of pain you've faced…but I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

Having not expected his embrace, she'd initially stiffened. Slowly she relaxes, her head dropping to his shoulder, fingers clenching the material of his tunic. Her voice is thick when she speaks. "You shouldn't…feel like you have to say that. I don't…I don't deserve to call you my brother…"

"Don't," he says flatly. "Don't ever think that of yourself. Our pasts shape us, but they don't define us, and blood isn't the only thing that can tie people together. I thought of you as a sister long before I knew of our relation, and that hasn't changed. Nothing will change that. I'll do my best to support you on your path for atonement, just like you supported me."

And with that, Lilith's control over her emotions snaps. Corrin holds her tightly, patting her back as she buries her face in the crook of his neck and sobs in sorrow and relief.

* * *

Word spreads quickly about the return to their home dimension—as well as the reveal of Lilith's origins. Within a day every Vallite is pinning her with furious and hateful glares. Corrin makes a declaration that she's not to be harmed, but for once his optimism wavers. In the early days of the Hoshidan-Nohrian alliance, people in his own army had nearly come to blows more than once, and that was even with a greater threat looming. What could a personal grudge drive someone to do, with no enemy to unite against? He makes sure to keep Lilith near him as often as possible, if only out of hope that the Vallites will be unwilling to try anything with their new king nearby.

Life is swept up in a rush of preparations as everyone readies to go their own way. He has his own preparations to make, namely the formal announcement of the new Valla, which would involve riding around greeting his new vassals and informing them of the situation. Azura declines to go with him, stating she'll handle work at the castle in his absence.

When he steps into the castle courtyard, two days after the barrier fell, a flurry of activity greets him. Mounts are being saddled, servants are rushing about on errands, and a knot of people is gathered in the center. He searches for Gunter, but his old mentor is still avoiding him, which sends a spike of frustration and sadness through him. Over the tops of the heads hurrying about he does barely make out the tips of Ryoma's spiky brown hair, though, and he makes his way towards it.

After pushing his way through the crowd, he sees his elder brothers, Ryoma mounted on a pegasus, Xander on a wyvern. They turn to him as he steps forward. "Corrin, it's good to see you," the swordmaster says. "We were just about to head off. We're flying ahead of the rest of the army—we need to return to our capitals as quickly as possible to be coronated and send letters ordering the remaining troops to stand down.

The albino nods. "I understand." It's easy to forget that while they'd been in Valla, the war had still been going on above, although hopefully the absence of a significant amount of soldiers and all the royals had kept it from getting too fierce. He's going to miss them, of course. But bringing about an official end to the war is of utmost importance.

Xander speaks up then. "Leo and Prince Takumi are returning with us as well. But I'm sending Elise as a diplomatic representative to Hoshido for Ryoma's coronation, and Princess Sakura will be coming to Nohr for mine."

Corrin's eyebrows rise and his eyes immediately flicker to his younger sisters, also mounted on a pegasus and wyvern. "Elise and Sakura?" He loves them dearly, but he's loath to put them in any sort of danger. He knows they can take care of themselves, having seen Elise burn a man alive and Sakura put arrows in throats with deadly precision, but even so, they'll be in foreign countries that had very recently been at war, at a time when prejudices and tensions will still be running red-hot.

"We volunteered!" Elise chirps. Her bright face grows briefly morose. "After witnessing firsthand what war causes…I want to do whatever I can to end it and help people in the aftermath. And I can best do that by acting as an envoy to Hoshido, to show them not all Nohrians are bad." Sakura nods in agreement, and Elise's smile returns in full force. "Besides, Azura, Sakura and Ryoma's stories have made me really eager to see it!"

"Will it be safe for you there?" Corrin starts, not having heard Azura coming up silently behind him. Her golden eyes are filled with concern as she looks at the two, memories of her pain in Nohr and Hoshido drawing the question out.

"O-Our retainers are coming with us," Sakura murmurs. "And Leo's promised to use his resources to help guard me. We should be s-safe from…assassination."

"I'll keep Elise under my protection, as well," Ryoma adds. "Hinoka and Princess Camilla have said they'll stay here with you for now, to help you get things running, though of course they'll eventually have to return to their own duties."

Corrin blinks; it hasn't really hit him until just now what becoming king of Valla means for his family life. It means an end to seeing his siblings on a daily basis. An end to shared meals and sparring matches and playing and petty arguments. There will be visits and parties and events, but he'll still go days or weeks or even months without physically being in their presence. In a worst-case scenario, he may even have to fight them if the interests of their countries ever clash—though he immediately stamps down on that thought superstitiously. An odd sort of loneliness and nostalgia wells up in him.

_I guess this is what growing up feels like._

"D-Don't look so sad, C-Corrin," Sakura says, giving him a tentative smile. "It's not like it's forever."

"She's right!" Elise adds. "We'll all see each other again someday!"

He chuckles; he's used to being the one to raise morale. But having spent literally his entire life locked up in a castle with his siblings not even a day away, and then spent the last year in close army quarters with them, it's hard not to feel a bit shocked at the realization they won't be easily reachable anymore. "Take care of yourselves, okay?"

Leo and Takumi arrive then, looking like they just finished getting ready, and it's time for farewells. Corrin gives out warm and wholehearted hugs, Azura's and Hinoka's are brief but affectionate, and Camilla smothers everyone with tight squeezes. Then the four of them stand back and watch the rest of the royal families take to the air. His heart throbs again, but he forces a smile onto his face, waving at the figures growing more minute as the distance between them increases. _Elise and Sakura are right. This goodbye isn't forever; we'll see each other again someday._ _I'm sure of it._

* * *

With most of the royal family gone, the Hoshidan-Nohrian army drifts apart, the alliance ended for now. It's surprisingly anti-climactic, given all the drama involved in getting them to work together. The retainers had left with the royals, and most of the bulk of the army follows behind. His brothers did bequeath him with a portion of their soldiers, mostly the ones who live in the areas they'd given to him, as otherwise Valla would have no standing military. Having people who have already overcome their prejudices and worked with one of their "archenemies" will be a great boon in the days to come, least of all because of the example it sets.

But the people in his personal force all leave one by one, returning to their own homes and duties, until only a handful—his servants, Kaze, Silas, Mozu—are left. He's not sure what some of those who found cross-nation love will decide, and it's not really his business. He just wishes them well and tells them they're welcome in Valla anytime.

Now, several days later, in the scarce minutes before his own departure, he sits in his treehouse, one finger tracing the words on the page before him.

_Prince-Consort Hydra Rheos. Birth date unknown, parents unknown. Amnesiac commoner and part-time scholar. Wed to Princess Mikoto Rheos, fathered Prince Kamui Rheos. Died during the fall of the first kingdom of Valla._

That's it. That's all the book has about his father. There isn't even a portrait. The ink for the last sentence is new, penned in recently by the historians. It's so small compared to the generous descriptions given to previous monarchs and their consorts.

He flips back to earlier in the book, to the family tree depicting generations of the Rheos royal family. His eyes drift to _Mikoto Rheos,_ the thin line connecting her to _Arete Rheos._ They split off to follow the branch joined to _Theophilus Rheos,_ leading to _Azura Rheos._ Then they return to his mother and sweep down the line pointing to his birth name, _Kamui Rheos._ Listed underneath it, also in fresh ink, are the other names he's had: Minamoto Kamui and Corrin Aurelius. Probably Corrin Rheos, too, once he and Azura wed; he doesn't mind taking her last name (or would it be reclaiming his?), and there's a certain sense of coming full circle in doing so.

Corrin returns to his father's page and stares at it a while before, with a sigh, he slams the heavy book shut in an unusual gesture of frustration; after what Lilith told him about the man, he'd hoped looking at his father's name and reading about him would make him feel… _something_. Happy? Sad? He doesn't know. Instead he just feels empty. He'd felt more looking at his mother's entry, and even that was mostly just a sense of vague mourning for what he'd scarcely known and lost.

"Your Majesty?" He looks up from the gray and blue cover to see Nestor standing in the doorway, panting slightly from the exertion of climbing the ladder. "Everything is prepared."

Corrin sets the book aside and rises. The Vallite's eyes follow the movement, and recognition sparks in them. "Did you find the book helpful?"

"Not as much as I'd like," he sighs, making his way to the door.

Nestor doesn't look surprised. Indeed, his eyes are full of understanding. "Ink and paper doesn't really compare to memories and flesh, does it? I'm sorry, Your Majesty. It was all I had to offer."

Feeling bad, Corrin gives him a smile as they descend the ladder, to where the procession is waiting. "It's fine." Nestor was a servant; his interactions with his parents would have been mostly professional. There really was nothing else he could have done.

The trip around the country would be a month, maybe a month and a half, circling down through the formerly-Hoshidan territory, taking a ship across the sea to Port Dia, and working their way back to Elysium, making the appropriate stops along the way. Flight would be quicker, but pegasi and wyverns are in shorter supply than horses for now, and are normally reserved for emergencies anyway.

As Corrin begins to saddle up the gray gelding given to him, Nestor's yellow eyes drift to the blue-haired figure sitting quietly astride her chestnut mare, avoided by all except for Camilla and Hinoka, who openly talk to her. "Are you certain it's a good idea to allow _her_ to travel with you?"

Given how hostile the home environment is for Lilith, Corrin had decided it would be safer for her to accompany him on this trip. He's fairly certain his presence is all that keeps the Vallites from attempting something drastic. Perhaps if she leaves for a bit, the additional time will let them grow used to the idea of her being around, and things will be somewhat safer for her when they return to Elysium.

"She wants to atone for the things she's done," he says. "I'm willing to give her that chance. More than that, I trust her."

The steward's lips tighten, and he shoots Lilith a dark look. "I will respect your decision, Your Majesty, but I won't like it. And I'll ask again that you stay on your guard."

He's certainly outspoken, and fiercely protective of the new royal family. Corrin smiles, but a dark part of him can't help but wonder if that loyalty would dissipate if the truth of his parentage came to light. _Good gods Corrin,_ stop _worrying about things you can't control._

"Of course," he says instead. "I trust I can count on you and Jakob to handle things in my absence?"

Nestors bows deeply. "We'll do our best to keep the castle standing for your return."

He steps back and Azura steps forward, reaching up to grasp Corrin's hand. She stands on the tips of her toes and he obliges, leaning down to kiss her mouth. Gods, he's going to miss her.

"You'll tell me, won't you?" she murmurs as they separate, reaching up and tracing his cheek with her fingers. "Whatever's been bothering you?"

"I will," he whispers back, unsurprised that she's seen through him. "When I return. I just need a bit more time to sort through my feelings."

She pulls back, searching his face. But she nods, stepping away with a final squeeze of his hand. "Take as much time as you need."

"Lord Corrin," Kaze calls, and he turns, noticing that the rest of the party has finished saying their goodbyes. "It's time."

He leans down and kisses Azura again. "I'll see you in about a months' time," he promises, and like when he said farewell to his siblings, the words ring true and heavy.

* * *

Over the past few days Vallite refugees have been trickling in a steady stream, those who managed to escape and hid in Hoshido or Nohr or Nestra or Izumo or even Mokushu, keeping their heads low throughout the years. Having heard about the death of Anankos, they've gathered up their families and belongings and immigrated to the new Valla, hoping to reclaim what they'd lost and meet the new king and savior. They must be quite disappointed to encounter Azura instead; despite her best efforts, she knows she still comes off as a bit frosty. But she's able to get them settled in with little trouble, and the additional boosts to the population and economy are welcome.

One week after Corrin left, as she takes an afternoon stroll in the gardens, Azura spots Felicia and Mozu having a tea break on one of the carved stone tables. Azura's steps slow, and she almost keeps walking. But she remembers Felicia's offer of friendship, and Corrin's encouragement, and the burgeoning loneliness she's felt with no one to really talk to. So, straightening her shoulders, she approaches them. She's done little but work the past few days; she can afford to procrastinate a bit.

"Hi, Lady Azura!" Felicia greets. "Would you like some tea? I actually think I got it right this time!"

"That would be nice, thank you," she murmurs, taking an open seat. Felicia fishes out a spare teacup from somewhere and pours Azura a drink. She sips the tea; it's still rather bitter, but better than what Felicia usually makes, and so when Felicia asks hopefully how it is she just says "It's improved" and leaves it at that.

An incredibly awkward silence falls over them, broken only by the clinking of the tea set and chewing of the too-sweet muffins. "...nice weather today," Felicia offers weakly.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Azura responds, trying not to wince at the generic choice of topic. All three of the women become quiet again.

It's quite clear that Mozu and Felicia feel it would be rude to resume their earlier talk now that Azura's joined them. It's also clear that neither of them, for all their offer of friendship, actually thought of something to break the ice between them.

The silence stretches past 'pregnant' into 'overdue' as everyone searches for a topic. Azura quietly starts to curse herself for thinking this was a good idea. She wants to try, she really does, but she just doesn't have anything to say. Her face shows nothing, but her heart starts to stutter in her chest, and she fights the urge to flee as panic begins to creep up—

"Books!" Mozu blurts out, startling the other two women. She grimaces apologetically. "Um, sorry. But…um, I've gotten some help with learning how to read from Lord Corrin and Nyx, and I'm enjoying it, so I thought maybe we could talk about…?"

Her voice trails off, but Felicia's face brightens, either out of relief to have a subject or out of genuine interest. "Oh, I love books!" she bubbles. Genuine interest it is, then. "Lord Corrin and Jakob and I used to have a little book club back in the Northern Fortress—we invited Flora, but she doesn't like reading. It was so fun! Do you like to read, Lady Azura?"

Books. That's a safe subject, a familiar subject. Her heartbeat steadies out, and Azura feels her social anxiety back off a little. "I do," she says. Then, feeling as though that's insufficient, she adds, "Scary stories are my favorite."

Felicia shivers. "You're braver than me. I could never read those without having nightmares."

"What do you prefer, then?" Mozu asks curiously. "I've read a bunch of fairy tales so far, and I really like them. Anything related to cooking, too."

"History books," the maid says promptly. "Books of culture, encyclopedias, pretty much anything with information about the world. They can be heavy reading, but they're fascinating."

"I didn't expect you to have an interest in that sort of thing," Azura admits.

Felicia nods, her cheery expression fading a bit. "Flora and I…we may have been trained as servants, but we were still political prisoners. We weren't as restricted as Lord Corrin, but we weren't exactly allowed to just go anywhere, you know? I used to wonder what the rest of Nohr was like, and then I started to wonder about the rest of the world. So I'd devour any books I could find about them…"

She says it matter-of-factly, without judgment, but Azura still feels guilt flush through her at Felicia's words. It's a bit shameful that she's never tried to think about her situation. It's not that different from hers and Corrin's, after all.

"Well, you've seen all sorts of places now," Mozu comforts, before Azura can think of something to say. "Hoshido, Izumo, Nestra…Even a kingdom in the sky! I reckon that's an experience worth more than anything you'd find in a book."

"Oh, it definitely is, but I still love reading about all those places. Maybe you would too? We could loan each other books, or borrow from the library, or buy new ones together…" Felicia gasps, excited. "We could start a book club again! I know Kaze likes reading too, and maybe we could invite other people—"

Azura winces. "Could we not?" As they look at her, crestfallen, she realizes her misstep and hastens to explain herself. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. A book club with the three of us sounds fun, but I don't think I'd be comfortable with a large group."

"Okay, sure, that's no problem!" Felicia says, taking this in stride. "The book club in the Northern Fortress was small, but we had a good time with it! You said you liked scary stories, right? Well, have you read…"

As they begin to talk recommendations, Azura feels herself relax. This is…nice. This sort of conversation isn't so personal as to unnerve her, but still manages to be engaging. She still doesn't speak up more than once or twice unless addressed directly, but Felicia and Mozu do their best to make her feel included.

_Maybe befriending them won't be so bad after all._

* * *

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Jiro," Corrin says, bowing lightly. As soon-to-be-king he should normally never bow to anyone, but given what he's just told the man it seems polite. "I expect I will be able to count on your cooperation and assistance in the future."

The man opposite bows stiffly in turn. Lord Jiro is a large, middle-aged man, grown fat and comfortable from the riches brought in by his massive rice plantation. "You will be given as much support as I can spare for a Nohrian, _Prince_ Corrin." It's as disrespectful as he can get while adhering to acceptable social courtesy, especially the emphasis on his title as prince instead of king (even if it is technically true).

Corrin's eyes narrow slightly. "We're all Vallite now," he reminds, letting the barest hints of steel enter his voice. "I understand you may be unhappy with the arrangement, but we have to set aside old prejudices and work together. Otherwise, our country will never thrive."

The man's lip curls. "I will tolerate living under your reign because I saw with my own eyes the decree from King Ryoma, stating it to be so. But I was born Hoshidan, and at heart my country is _Hoshido_ ; I will _never_ trust nor accept Nohrian neighbors."

"How dare you speak with such disrespect in the presence of not just one, but two members of the Minamoto royal family?" Hinoka hisses, more offended for her brother's sake than her own but still wielding fake affront like a weapon—her "re-education" on etiquette paying off. Camilla, on Corrin's other side, says nothing, knowing better than to interject in Hoshidan matters, but her eyes narrow dangerously and her fingers drum along the hilt of her axe.

Steadfastly ignoring the Nohrian princess, Lord Jiro turns to Hinoka. His scowl lessens somewhat, and his bow is genuine this time. "My apologies for any offense to you, Princess Hinoka. I have nothing but respect for our country's royal family, of course. But while your brother was once part of that family, he's been gone so long he may as well be a Nohrian. And I will never accept a Nohrian as my king."

And try as they might, they're unable to move his mind on that matter. Corrin sighs as the guards very firmly escort them to the door; it's very clear they've overstayed their welcome. They make their way to where the horses are saddled up. Lord Jiro is only the latest of the Hoshidan feudal lords to react in this fashion, though thankfully the last; many are displeased to suddenly find themselves under new rule.

"It could have been worse," Silas mutters as they mount their horses. "He could have 'requested' we leave in the middle of the night rather than the morning."

"That'd be a breach in hospitality. No matter how much he dislikes the situation, no one would break that rule." Corrin kicks his steed, and the convoy begins to set out to their next destination. "Isn't your parents' estate near Port Dia? So they should have been absorbed into Valla, right?"

"That's right," Silas nods. Then, lips pulling up, he teases, "So it looks like you're stuck with me."

His memories of Silas's parents are hazy; he only remembers that his father had brought him to the Fortress to train as a squire, his mother writing and sending gifts when she could. But he remembers they were considered somewhat radical because of their non-hatred of Hoshidans, probably where Silas learned to be so tolerant, so he's certain he can count on them for support.

Corrin glances over his shoulder. "What about you, Kaze? Are you going to get in trouble for leaving Hoshido to serve me?"

"A ninja is allowed to choose his liege," is the green-haired man's stoic response. "So no."

With the trip to Lord Jiro over, it's time for them to voyage to the formerly-Nohrian half of his country. They're three hours away from the port they would board at when they decide to break for lunch. Corrin dismounts and strolls over to his elder sisters. Their wyvern and pegasus are sunbathing a short distance away. He's never been more grateful to have them with him—Camilla and Hinoka have knowledge of the lords he lacks, quietly filling him in on each's name, history and temperament to help him better deal with them. With their assistance he's managed to find a few promising candidates for positions at his slowly-filling court, and avoided poor ones. He settles down beside them with his own lunch and tells them so.

"You know it probably would have been easier to just call the lords all to Castle Avalon and meet them there, right?" Hinoka asks through a mouthful of rice, accepting his gratitude with a nod.

"Probably," he admits. "But given that I'm effectively telling them they have to rearrange their lives to serve me instead of Hoshido or Nohr, it seems politer to do this. Besides, this lets me learn the lay of the land."

"I doubt you have enough resources stockpiled for a feast yet anyway," Camilla adds. "You'll want to save it all for your coronation." She winks. "And _wedding_. Have you asked my dear step-sister yet?"

"Don't tease me," he mumbles, blushing. "I'm still trying to get things together." He has a proposal planned, he does. He just…needs to triple-check it and make sure it's perfect. Maybe quadruple-check it.

Though the thoughts of Azura remind him of something he's been meaning to ask his sisters. "Do you miss your beaus?"

It's almost shocking how much he misses Azura, not just because he loves her. Having been by each other's side for an entire year, he's always been able to count on her unwavering support, blunt opinions and compassionate words. Now that they're separated, there's a notable, Azura-shaped hole in his life; he finds himself turning to ask her thoughts or share something with her, only to remember she's not there. He knows everyone with him has been sending letters to their respective loved ones, and has received some in turn, but it's not the same.

Still, at least he'll see Azura when he gets back to Castle Avalon, and Kaze and Silas will see Felicia and Mozu; Camilla and Hinoka will have to wait weeks, maybe months, for a reunion.

Hinoka only nods, eyes wistful, still not quite comfortable talking about matters of the heart. Camilla has no such qualms, though there is a catch in her voice when she says, "Of course I do. But we've always known our respective duties might take us away from each other for periods of time." She pauses, then smirks, adding, "Besides, separation makes the heart grow fonder. I'll just make up for the lost time by being _extra_ affectionate to him when I get back…"

"Please don't give me that mental image ever again," he deadpans.

"Agreed," Hinoka mutters, and the malig knight laughs, delighted at embarrassing them.

The rest of lunch is uneventful, and in no time at all they're returning to their mounts and the road still stretched out before them. Corrin smiles a bit as the breeze caresses his face, bringing the scent of the ocean with it; he's grown fond of sailing and the sea, and he's tentatively optimistic about how things will fare on the formerly-Nohrian side. Camilla had estimated that the Nohrians will be slightly more accepting of him too, as he's been their prince for years, whereas the Hoshidans regained him for only a few weeks before he 'turned traitor'.

Though even the Nohrians would be loath at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with Hoshidans—ironically the one thing both sides can agree on is their distrust and dislike of each other. Getting them to cooperate would be no easy task.

 _But I_ will _succeed. I_ _have a duty to Valla now, one I won't fail to uphold. One I_ can't _fail to uphold._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: oh my god I hated writing the ending for this chapter, hated hated hated it. Everything else came naturally but I spent so much time on those last few paragraphs ugh.
> 
> And so the party breaks. The fellowship disbands. It's really a lot of trouble trying to maintain a +12 member cast, so for my own sanity I had to split them off. We will be seeing the royals again, though, and maybe even some other cast members! Camilla and Hinoka stayed because I thought the royal sisters got shafted in the main story, and between them and the little sisters, they strike me as being better suited to assisting Corrin in courtly matters.
> 
> Name Meanings:
> 
> Rheos is a Greek word meaning to flow, referencing the current of a river. Unlike Japan and Rome, the Greeks didn't have last names, so I had to turn to other sources, and this seemed very fitting for the royal family of a country strongly associated with water.
> 
> Minamoto, the Hoshidan royal family name, is the name of one of the four great clans in the Heian period of Japanese history. They had close ties to the Emperor's clan and were responsible for setting up the first bakufu, or the government for the shogun (military dictators).
> 
> Aurelius, the Nohrian royal family name, comes from Marcus Aurelius, one of the Five Good Emperors of Roman history. His reign was considered a golden age—in fact, Rome never recovered after his death—and he himself was a follower of Stoic philosophy, which principles line up with some of Xander's.


	5. Chapter 5

As they approach his parents’ estate at a steady trot, Silas tries to calm his nerves. He knows his parents are good people. They’ve always been supportive of him, and while there had been a period where they’d blamed Corrin for his brush with death years ago, they’d moved past it. There’s no reason to think they’ll be anything less than supportive of his friend’s new reign, or Silas’s decision to stay in Elysium.

But if he’s honest, those aren’t the heart of his worries. He’s been gone for months. He hadn’t been able to write once they’d stepped into Valla. His parents were probably worried sick about him, and he’s a bit afraid to face them again after essentially disappearing off the face of the continent—literally.

_And that’s not even including the part about Mozu._

How would his parents react to that? They’ve always been more tolerant of Hoshidans, but she was a commoner too. Maybe one or the other would have been okay with them, but both? His mouth goes dry at the thought of not having his parents’ blessing.

“Silas.” He glances to his right to see that Corrin has moved his horse next to his. The prince gives him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you again.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, grateful for his friend’s support. “But that’s not it. Not entirely.”

Corrin’s brows crinkle in concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Then: “Yes. I don’t know. It’s just…my parents are so important to me. I don’t want them to disapprove of Mozu.”

His friend nods sympathetically. “I don’t remember much about them, but they seemed like good, level-headed people from what I do recall. I’m sure they’ll support your choice.”

His father had been assigned as a guard to the Northern Fortress, and brought Silas along to train him as a squire; that was how he’d met Corrin. Mother had stayed in their estate to manage things, but would often send up letters and pastries. After sneaking Corrin outside and getting caught, his father had been forced to leave alongside him.

Silas thanks him again, and then they turn back to the road. They’d sent word ahead of their arrival, so servants are waiting to take their horses when they reach the courtyard some ten minutes later. The paladins’s eyes run over the familiar stone architecture of the house, the crenellated walls and slanted purple roofs. They’re drawn to the motion of the door, which is swinging open for…

His parents, Lord Adrien Chalon and Lady Renata Chalon. They haven’t changed a bit since he last saw them, his mother’s silver hair still expertly coiffed, his father’s green eyes still sharp and hawk-like. Their gazes immediately lock onto him, and he watches the emotions play over their faces. Were it not for the need for proper etiquette, he knows they would have run straight to him. But as the hosts, they must address the royalty first and make them comfortable.

“Prince Corrin, Princess Camilla,” Father greets with a bow and kiss of Camilla’s hand. His eyes slide to the redheaded woman to the left, and with only a moment’s hesitation betraying his wariness, adds “…Princess Hinoka. Welcome to our estate. Please, make yourselves at home.”

“Dinner should be ready in an hour,” Mother adds, stealing a second glance at her son. “Until then, we could give you a tour of the grounds while our servants care for your mounts?”

“It’s alright,” Corrin says with a smile. “We can waive formalities this once. I’m sure you’re eager to catch up with Silas.”

His parents don’t bother to hide the relief at the suggestion. They all dismount, and pages step forward to lead the animals away. Other servants guide the party into their estate, splitting off to take them to separate rooms; Silas alone follows his parents to the parlor. A hundred childhood memories assault him when they step inside: his mother chasing him here when he was small because he didn’t want to take a bath; the time he found his father huddled by the fire, recently released from service for a crippling injury received in the line of duty; afternoons spent struggling to sit still through his lessons.

Silas is yanked out of the memories by his parents simultaneously stepping forward and hugging him. He wraps his arms around their backs, closing his eyes. His mother’s imported perfume, smelling faintly of jasmine. The stump of his father’s missing hand against his back. Things so mundane and familiar, he’d taken them for granted. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them until now.

“Mother, Father,” he mumbles into their shirts. “I’m back.”

“I can see that!” Father’s laugh has a slight edge of hysteria. “It’s wonderful to see you’re still alive.”

“Months, Silas!” Mother hisses, grabbing his ear and tugging sharply, wringing out a little yelp from him. “You send _one_ letter, saying you’re deserting your post because you can’t rightfully follow King Garon anymore and that you’re going to serve Prince Corrin instead, and for _months,_ that’s it. One letter, then you _never_ return, never write, never—gods, couldn’t you have found some way to at least let us know you were alive?”

“That wasn’t exactly possible,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I assume you received King Xander’s missives about Anankos?”

Xander, Ryoma and Corrin had all sent out letters summarizing what had happened down in Valla as soon as the barrier fell. Anankos had life-bound a curse on Valla, to be forgotten by all the nations; when he died, the curse died with him, as did the curse on the country’s name. Everyone who had been alive at Valla’s fall regained their memories of the lost kingdom, and it found its place in the history books again. So many of the kingdoms had easily believed the brothers’ words.

His parents nod, and he says, “Then you’ll understand that sending a letter wasn’t exactly possible.”

Mother sighs. “Yes, logically, I know you’re right. But as your mother, I was still fraught with worry.” She shakes herself. “But come, let’s speak of happier things. Tell us how you’ve been!”

They sit by the fire and talk a while of mundane things; he regales some of his better war stories for his veteran father, avoiding any _too_ bloody for his mother’s sake. Thirty minutes into the discussion one of his old servants, Opal if he recalls correctly, arrives and informs them that dinner will be ready soon, and he knows it’s time.

“I met someone,” he says, staring into the fireplace. “During the war.”

His father smiles proudly, while his mother’s face lights up. “That’s wonderful!” she exclaims, patting his hand. “Tell us about her! What’s she like? Did she come with you today?”

“Ah, no, she didn’t. She stayed in Elysium.” He swallows. This is the hard part. “Um, she used to be a farmer, but her village was destroyed during the war.”

“Poor dear,” Mother says sympathetically, while Father grumbles about the lack of effective soldiers nowadays.

They don’t seem to mind the commoner aspect, so he moves on, rubbing the back of his head nervously. “Yeah, she’s gone through a lot. But she never gave up once, even though she thought too little of herself…that’s actually how we got together, she thought she was weak, so I offered to help her train. After each sparring session, we’d just sit down and talk, and she was just so charming and funny and…” He realizes he’s starting to ramble and cuts himself off, face burning.

“She sounds sweet,” Mother smiles. “What’s her name?”

Here it is. He takes a deep breath. “Mozu.”

“Mozu? That’s not a Nohrian na…” Father’s furrowed brows suddenly straighten out as he makes the connection. His face becomes unreadable. “She’s Hoshidan?”

Mother pulls back in surprise as Silas says, an edge of defensiveness unintentionally working its way in, “She’s _from_ Hoshido, but she’s not Hoshidan anymore; she’s Vallite now, like us. We all had to work together to defeat Anankos. There _were_ no Hoshidans or Nohrians in the army, just a single collective trying to beat a greater threat.”

They exchange a look, doing that silent communication thing that always irritates him.

“Would you marry her?” Father abruptly asks, to which he responds with a firm, “Yes.”

“Even if we don’t give our blessing?”

“…Yes.”

Father leans back and uncrosses his arms with a nod. “Well, that’s fine then. A woman you’d be willing to go against your parent’s wishes for must be quite something, right, Renata?”

“Indeed. You simply must introduce her to us sometime,” Mother says, taking Silas’s hand. “She sounds like a dear.”

He looks from one to the other. “That’s it?” he says incredulously. “No arguments, no threats, you’re just completely okay with me marrying a Hoshidan commoner?” Nobility didn’t _get_ to choose who to marry, most of the time.

“She’s not exactly what we envisioned for you,” Mother admits, “But allowing you two to court sets a good example for the rest of the country. I’m sure there will be difficulties helping her adjust to noble life, but we’ll deal with them as they come.”

Their acceptance makes Silas want to weep in relief. It’s as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders and he can just now breathe again. _I can’t believe I got myself all worked up and then for it to turn out to be nothing._

“Come on,” Father says, rising and pulling Silas up with him. “It’s been too long since we had dinner as a family—we’ll make it a feast.”

* * *

“My lady, the Nestrian ambassador is here.”

Azura looks up from the reply she was penning to Elise, whose letter had arrived earlier that day, at Nestor’s statement. Her step-sister’s words had been equal parts solemn, imparting her on how difficult staying in Hoshido was when most of the country disliked her, and cheerful, because despite that she was enjoying herself. She was doing good work, and when she wasn’t working Ryoma was taking her to sightsee in Shirasagi and the surrounding Hoshidan countryside.

She sighs and sets the letter aside to finish later. It’s unfortunate that Corrin isn’t back yet, or that she can’t just hand this off to Nestor; Azura does not consider herself a particularly good diplomat, and she’d rather not do this.  But given the crimes Valla had done to Nestra, even if under the rule of a previous king, sending them to her advisor instead would be inappropriate and a snub.

“Very well.” She rises, smoothing out the fabric of her dress and mentally preparing herself. “Take me to him.”

He leads her out of the office, weaving through the hallways. Azura marvels at how quickly the castle’s look has improved; in the astral plane, most everything had accumulated a thick layer of dust, and technology was severely out of date. Now, with everything clean, proper heating and lighting, people milling about the hall on their duties, and tapestries and suits of armor and various bits of décor, it looks like an entirely different place.

They step into the grand hall, where a solitary figure is standing distinctly before the throne. “Princess Azura, I present Ambassador Abdul Karim of Nestra,” Nestor introduces.

Even without the announcement, Azura could tell the man is Nestrian. He has the same tanned skin and light, airy clothing as most of his countrymen. She gives him a nod. An awkward moment passes before she remembers to extend a hand for him to kiss; it’s been too long since she had to use her etiquette lessons. She does, and he bends to press his lips chastely to it, his dark blue hair gleaming in the sunlight. “Greetings, Princess Azura. I have to admit when I arrived I was expecting Prince Corrin to be here. But you are his betrothed, are you not?”

“Yes,” she answers, if only because it’s easier than saying _he hasn’t proposed yet but he probably will soon._ “Corrin won’t be back for at least another week, but I am capable of handling negotiations in his absence. If you’ll follow me…”

And with an incline of her head, Azura leads him out of the room, wondering if she’d been too brusque.

“Queen Jamila does not blame you specifically for what happened at Cyrkensia,” the ambassador says as they walk; if her manner insulted him, he does not show it. “But someone needs to pay the price, and Valla had the biggest part in the tragedy that took place that day. You understand.”

“I do. We are, of course, willing to make full reparations for the damage Anankos did to Cyrkensia,” Azura begins as they enter a chamber designed for negotiations. They take opposite seats in the modest but comfortable chairs, a long table between them. Someone, probably Nestor, had alerted the servants; Flora and Jakob are waiting inside. The pair bow and serve them tea and muffins, then go stand at the entrance of the door in case of trouble.

“But what of the lives lost, Princess?” Abdul stresses, leaning forward. “What of the people who died by Vallite blade, the people who lost loved ones to Vallite invaders? What reparations can you make for that?”

His words hit home, as he probably intended them to. Azura’s hands still on their way to bringing her cup to her mouth. “None,” she says quietly, lowering it. “There are none we can make. We can only offer our apologies and our assurances that we have no interest in such senseless warfare anymore.”

He sighs, turning away. “I know, and it is unfair of me to ask that question. But I personally experienced loss that day, and I can’t help but want to blame you. It’s a feeling I’m not alone in; some of our people want retribution.”

“The soldiers who invaded Cyrkensia are all dead, as is the king who commanded them,” she says firmly. “Let that sate your vengeance.”

Abdul chuffs softly. “I said _some_ want it, not all. Queen Jamila is not one of them, and she will not be swayed by the populace. We are not a particularly militant nation, as you well know, and do not wish to throw away more lives in another pointless war. You have nothing to fear on that front.”

Nestra’s primary income is entertainment. Most of the country was desert, with little natural resources except along the coast, so that was where they’d flocked, building fabulous and sparkling cities meant to draw tourists in. They had even less military than Hoshido, relying mostly on Nohr’s goodwill for protection, so it was unsurprising, though reassuring, to hear they didn’t want a war of retribution.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she says, reaching for a quill and paper, “Now, what did the damage cost total?”

* * *

The Nohrian lords and dukes had, as Camilla predicted, been more receptive to Corrin, but not completely—he’d been an even more distant figure than his siblings, locked up in the fortress, and he knows many of them had eyed him and wondered whether he could competently rule. They’d also vocalized their displeasure to be rubbing shoulders with the Hoshidans, and seemed unhappy that he wanted them to get along. The trip was, overall, tense, and it’s with great relief that Corrin returns to Elysium, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders when they spot the vague, towering shape of Castle Avalon in the distance.

It is to relative fanfare and pomp that they return, the citizens lining up on the streets to catch a glimpse of him—he’d heard about the influx of Vallite refugees, so their curiosity and awe doesn’t surprise him. Azura is waiting for him at the gates of the castle, and he almost jumps off his horse to run to her, kissing her and laughing. Nestor is standing by her side, smiling. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Felicia and Mozu move to greet Kaze and Silas.

They fill him in on the ambassador from Nestra and the work Nestor and Azura have done for the coronation. Most everything is finished and with a little luck it’ll be held in two weeks; actually a few days after his twenty-first birthday. He thanks the chamberlain for his skill and dedication in managing castle affairs, then tells a few servants to prepare a quiet dinner for himself and Azura; he’s missed her badly, and he just wants to bask in her company alone.

He also needs to tell her about his father. It would be wrong to propose before she knows the whole truth of what she’s getting into.

Jakob and Flora prepare the meal together and serve it in a solar—steak with chutney, creamy bean soup, and giant shrimp drizzled in honey. Corrin’s mouth is watering just smelling it, and he and Azura dig in with relish. First they chat of national matters; the upcoming coronation, the reluctant nobles, the Vallite’s happy adjustment to their new home. Then their talks turns to the personal; Azura tells him about her slow-building friendships with Felicia and Mozu, and he smiles broadly and clasps her hand across the table, genuinely happy that soon other people will see her for the wonderful woman she is.

As the duo brings out the strawberry pudding for dessert, Corrin decides it’s time. He waits for them to leave, then leans forward across the table, meeting Azura’s gaze evenly. “Azura, I’m ready to tell you what was bothering me now.”

She lowers her spoon, bits of pudding clinging to it. “Yes, love?”

“Shortly before we left the astral plane, Selena, Laslow and Odin came to speak to me, and they told me…Anankos was my father.” Azura’s eyes widen, but she says nothing, trusting that he’ll explain himself. And he does, giving her an abbreviated version of what he’s learned so far.

When he’s finished, Azura quickly rises from her chair. For half a second he’s certain she’s about to leave and his heart stutters, but instead she crosses to his side of the table. She bends to be eye-level with him; one hand rises to caress his cheek, and he leans into the familiar contact.

“I love you,” she finally says after a long moment of silence. “The identity of your sire doesn’t change who _you_ are—the kind, wonderful man who reached out to me when no one else did, who worked tirelessly to unite two enemy nations. I could never think less of you, or stop loving you.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you.” The two simple words seem insufficient to hold how relieved and grateful he feels right then and there. Still, a thorn of uncertainty and fear pokes at him.

Azura’s eyes search his. “What’s really wrong?” she asks softly, and he inadvertently chuckles; he can never hide things from her.

“I’m afraid,” he murmurs. “Of what people will say or do if they find out, of what…what could happen to me.” Unconsciously, his hand moves to ghost over his dragonstone, still hidden beneath his tunic like a dirty secret.

He still has nightmares, sometimes, about what he did in Shirasagi that day. The blind fury that had overtaken him, the rampant destruction he’d caused. The buildings and bodies alike crumbled and the blood on his hands when he’d changed back. The feel of Azura’s throat, pulse fluttering weakly with life, in his grip. Sometimes his nightmares don’t stop there, but go into _what if_ scenarios, where her voice didn’t call him out of his rage and he choked her to death and moved on to his siblings and—

“Corrin?” A faint tone of concern is in Azura’s voice, breaking through the sharp, painful memories.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking the images out of his head. “I just…I don’t want to end up like _him_.” The war had distracted the Hoshidans from what he’d done, but he’s never forgotten. And with recent developments, he can’t stop comparing, in his mind’s eye, what’d he done in Shirasagi to what Anankos had done to Valla.

Her eyes soften. “In terms of going evil or going mad? You would never become the former; it’s just not in your nature. As for the latter…” she sighs, “I wish I could promise that you won’t, but I don’t know what it’s like to be a dragon. I don’t know what madness haunts dragonkin, or if it will plague you too. All I can promise is that I, and all your siblings and friends, will _never_ let you go through it alone. And perhaps that will make all the difference.”

Corrin sighs and rests his forehead against hers. “Thank you,” he repeats, “Your support and your love mean so much to me.”

She hums softly, that familiar tune she sang so often in the war. He lets his eyes slide shut to listen to the lovely sound.

 _Never,_ he silently vows as he soaks in the comfort of Azura’s presence, _I will never end up like you, Anankos. I swear it._

* * *

Guests for the coronation start to trickle in over the next few days, and the other countries begin sending representatives. Nestra’s ambassador, Abdul, is there in lieu of the queen, and the new daimyo of Mokushu opts not to attend, sending a nervous-looking delegate instead (Corrin’s not surprised by the wariness, given that his army had _killed_ the previous ruler, even if they’d been attacked first). Kohga is too new for Shura to afford to leave, but he sends a courier with his regards and apologies for not being able to attend. Notre Sagesse, Cheve, and the tribes have people on the way as well.  

His siblings will be among the last to arrive—they’d chosen to attend themselves rather than sending someone in their place, so they’d needed a bit longer to finish setting things in order at home. Takumi is the first to arrive, three days before the event, with word that Ryoma and Elise aren’t far behind him. He’d just chosen to ride ahead.

“Couldn’t wait to see us again, huh, brother?” Hinoka teases, hugging him warmly when he steps inside the entrance hall.

“The castle grounds are surprisingly quiet without the sound of you beating up training dummies in the morning,” is all he deigns to say, before turning to embrace Azura and Corrin in turn.

“How’re things in Hoshido?” Corrin asks as he releases his brother.

Takumi sighs. “A mess. Nohr pushed pretty far into the country while we were gone in Valla; a lot of the land is wrecked. Most of the feudal lords think the peace is a Nohrian trick, and are pressing Ryoma to charge Nohr now. And that’s not even getting into the people’s reaction to Princess Elise.”

“They haven’t hurt her, have they?”

“Of course not,” the prince hastens to reassure him, “Between Ryoma, me, and her retainers, she’s always with someone trusted. Still…most only tolerate her presence.”

“Sakura tells me her luck is little better in Nohr,” Azura murmurs. “They didn’t take as much damage as Hoshido, but they’re just as bitter and suspicious. And the court is worse than Hoshido’s, though Xander and Leo are doing their best to reign the nobles in.”

“Hopefully, everyone will be too tired from the war to try—” Hinoka starts, before a loud call from the guard by the front door interrupts her.

“Presenting Archduke Izana of Izumo and his envoy!”

The four of them wheel around to see a familiar, blonde, _alive_ archduke walk through the doors, several men and women in tow. “Hey there!” he greets, waving cheerily at the royals as he approaches.

Corrin subtly pinches himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. Azura’s expression doesn’t change at all except for a slight widening of her eyes. Takumi’s face drains of all color at an interesting rate. Hinoka looks back and forth between them, a little baffled at their reactions.

Izana wiggles his fingers, his grin covering his entire face. “Prince Takumi of Hoshido, you have failed in your duties to help your brother! I, the Great Izana, have come back from the grave just to haunt you!” He starts laughing. “Nah, I’m kidding, I’m alive.”

“Duke Izana?” Corrin says in disbelief.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” he responds brightly. “How’ve you been? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“ _You were dead!”_ Takumi finally yells, stabbing a finger at Izana. “We saw your body!”

The blonde snorts, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, please. I’m a master spellcaster! A bit of magic here, an enchantment there, and all of a sudden it looks like I’m dying! One of my finest pieces of work, if I do say so myself.”

Takumi gapes openly as Izana continues, with a little laugh, “I mean, honestly, I talk to the gods all the time! A little message like that won’t give me more than just a headache. More than that, my current heir is some second cousin, and he’s _boring_. _No_ sense of humor. I can’t die and leave Izumo in his hands.” Izana shakes his head in mock—or real? It’s hard to tell with him—despair.

“I have so many questions right now,” Hinoka mutters to Azura under her breath.

As she quietly begins to fill the falcon knight in on the events at Izumo, Corrin asks the only question that can come to mind. “Why would you fake your death?”

Izana shrugs his shoulders and lifts his hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “Well, your brother was being super-super-stubborn about not helping you. So I gave him a bit of an incentive to get him to go along. Nothing like good ol’ guilt to motivate you, am I right?” He laughs again.

“Dying isn’t funny!” Takumi snaps.

“I never said it was. But the fate of the world was at stake, so I did what I had to do. Now,” Izana claps his hands together, cutting Takumi off mid-protest, “it’s been a long trip, and my hair is frizzing. _Frizzing_ ,” he emphasizes, as though frizzing was the worst thing that could happen to an individual, “So I hope you can direct me and my buddies to a place to drop off our _piles_ of luggage, then it’s off to the bathhouse!”

Corrin snaps himself out of his surprise. “Of course. Nestor, could you please show the Izumites to their chambers?” As his chamberlain bows and begins to usher them away, the prince steps forward and offers Izana a hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re still alive.” _Even if it is hard to follow what you say sometimes._

Izana grasps his hand and shakes it enthusiastically, almost pulling his arm out of its socket. “And I’m very glad to still be alive!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Corrin’s birthday is July 10, to help give everyone a timeframe, and the coronation will be a few days after that. I’m a bit wary about using real-life month names when they aren’t used in the game itself, so I generally don’t.
> 
> Next chapter is the coronation, and that’s when the plot will start to get moving—this was the last “set-up” chapter. The groundwork for almost everything I have planned for the rest of the fic has been laid out in these five chapters.
> 
> And yeah, Izana’s alive. His death was sudden and contrived in the game, and I’ve heard several plausible theories about how he faked it. Keeping him dead would throw Izumo into political turmoil, which I don’t want to deal with, and I like Izana, so he lives! He’s kind of hard to write though.
> 
> Name origins:  
> Jamila and Abdul: The only Nestrian we meet in the game is Layla. Since her name is Arabic, that’s what I used for a basis for other Nestrian names and culture, even though Cyrkensia looks like it takes inspiration from Venice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Between writers block and the fact that college starts for me tomorrow, it took me longer than I thought to get this out. Updates between this and LK are going to be a bit more sporadic from now on, but I’ll keep working on them, promise. This is a bit short, mostly because I’m trying a new idea out—showing the same scene from multiple perspectives. Please let me know what you thought of it, since it’s something I might want to use in the future.

Having an entire country celebrate his birthday is odd to Corrin. Unless you were the ruler or next in line, your birthday didn’t get celebrated in Nohr; they just didn’t have the resources to spare for pomp and grandour. So looking out his window to see decorations strung throughout Elysium and bustling, cheering crowds attending the festival, is a surreal experience.

He doesn’t go to the city—while he generally loves socializing, he’s more eager to spend time with his siblings and friends, now that they’ve all arrived. Felicia, Flora and Jakob spent the day before tidying up his suite, so when his siblings step in they find a large, lovely room with rich food awaiting them.

It’s not so much a party as a celebratory dinner, truth be told. But his siblings bring well-wishes and presents, and some games like Hazard and shogi, and Azura dedicates a song to him, and it’s just a really nice event. Lilith sneaks her gift in before everyone else arrives, a rolled-up scroll. When he opens it he is greeted by the visage of a man with long hair and sad eyes, drawn in charcoal. He glances at her and she mouths _‘Father_ ’—she must have recreated his face from memory. She always was good at art. Swallowing, he closes the scroll and thanks her.

When the party is in full swing and he’s sure Azura is sufficiently distracted by Elise and Sakura, Corrin finds Xander speaking with Ryoma, a glass of wine in hand. Other than the new dark circles under their eyes, his elder brothers look hardly the worse for wear for their new kingship. He taps the Nohrian king on the shoulder.

“Can I speak to you?” he asks quietly. His brother crooks an eyebrow, but lets Corrin lead him away to a corner of the room. The albino glances around again before beginning to speak rapidly.

“Okay, do you remember my piano, back in the Northern Fortress? Do you think you could, um, transport it here for me?”

Xander’s eyebrows rise. “I can have several wyvern couriers deliver it, yes. But what for?”

“Please don’t tell Azura,” Corrin hisses, darting a second look over his shoulder to ensure the woman in question is still occupied. “But I’m going to propose soon, and I was going to use the piano for it. So—”

His brother smiles and claps him on the shoulder. “Say no more. I’ll tell the couriers to bring it here with all speed.”

Corrin exhales in relief. “Thank you.”

* * *

The coronation is held three days later, and the throne room is absolutely packed front to back with people. He’s gained two new sets one armor, one for combat, and a fancy ceremonial set he’s wearing now. His crown is wrought with iron and silver, forged in the shape of dragon horns and studded with aquamarines. Corrin would wonder if the ironworkers were sending a message about his heritage if he weren’t certain that knowledge was secret.

Having placed the crown on his head, Azura’s hands linger, stroking his cheek briefly before withdrawing. He slowly rises, grimacing a bit at the pressure the additional weight puts on his head and neck. He’ll have to commission a smaller one like Xander’s and use this large one only for special occasions.

Azura steps down, joining his siblings and retainers at the base of the dais, where the original throne of Valla stands. It had been damaged heavily during the battles with Gunter and Anankos, but it was a symbol of past glory, and it had been deemed that recovering it would be good for morale. Azura had sent men to begin restoring it immediately, and they’d finished only a few days ago. Now it resides in Castle Avalon, proud and glorious once again. Corrin lowers himself into it, trying not to fidget at the feel of the cold, uncomfortable stone.

Taking a deep breath to hide his nerves, he begins his address to the people, voice magically amplified so that all can hear him. “Vallites…I would like to begin my address by thanking King Ryoma and King Xander for their generous gift of land. If not for them, we would be homeless…”

* * *

 _I’m getting too old to make journeys like this,_ Chief Kenta of the Fire Tribe thinks, frowning as he rubs a stiff shoulder. He’s nearing fifty, and really shouldn’t have made the trip down to this new Valla, especially since the Fire Tribe is far from their territory; he doesn’t think they’ll have much communication or trade going on. But he’d respected Sumeragi and Mikoto greatly, and was curious about their son. After his daughter had returned from the war, with tales of how he’d led them against a dragon-god, it had only been heightened. So when Kenta saw the opportunity to see the lad for himself, he took it.

“You don’t have to go,” Rinkah had protested when he’d informed her he would be attending the coronation. “I know how travel tires you out at your age.”

“Girl, don’t tell me I’m getting too old,” Kenta had snorted in response, “I’m as fit as ever. Besides, it’s about time you started learning how to rule the tribe. Let’s see how you do without me for a few weeks.”

Rinkah had hesitated, but then nodded firmly. He smiles a bit in reminiscence, remembering her firm promise that she will—something had changed during her time at war. She still burned with passion, but it was controlled now. It was as though she’d found some sort of inner peace with herself.

 _And a boyfriend_.

His smile turns to a scowl. He can’t say he approves of her boyfriend—outsiders are outsiders—but he’ll give him a chance, seeing as how he’d not only fought in the war too, but earned Rinkah’s respect. One mistake and he’ll be sent packing back to…Hoshido? Nohr? One of the other tribes? Whichever place he came from, Kenta can’t be bothered to remember.

But in any case, his curiosity about Sumeragi and Mikoto’s child is satisfied. Kenta can now understand his daughter’s respect for him, though he’s a bit more aloof. The boy has heart, that much is clear, but he takes after the deceased king too much—very idealistic, very naïve. The same qualities that had gotten Sumeragi killed.

Maybe Kenta’s just cynical, old, or both, but he can't help but feel as though Corrin's similarities to his father will be his downfall.

* * *

The new king of Valla is certainly something, Abdul has to admit, almost as transfixed on King Corrin’s words as the rest of those in attendance. He has yet to speak with the man personally, unfortunately; he can’t leave until he’s assessed him like Queen Jamila had asked. She’d sent him to Valla not just to negotiate for their money, but to gauge if their new rulers were a threat.

To be honest, part of him had hoped they would be, if only so he could feel justified for blaming them. If they’d arrived in Cyrkensia just a little bit faster, perhaps his elderly parents would still be alive. His mouth tightens as he recalls the sight of their mangled, recovered bodies.

Still, he’d had a job, and for Nestra’s sake he had to be objective. So he’d masked his personal feelings and kept a polite demeanor and spoke to people and observed. You could tell much about a man by the company he kept, and judging by his betrothed and servants, the king was every bit the kind, peace-loving man the letters had painted him as. His speech just now further leads credence to it.

Abdul sighs quietly, feeling his mouth twist wryly upwards. He’ll still withhold judgment until he actively meets the man himself, but it looks like when he returns home he’ll be able to reassure his queen they have nothing to fear. 

* * *

_Well, he certainly knows how to work a crowd._

Daimyo Tanaka Jiro applauds with the rest as the newly-appointed king finishes his speech, though inwardly he seethes at the situation he’s found himself in. To think that after his family’s decades of service to Hoshido, they’d be handed off to serve some sheltered Nohrian lord without a second thought. His ancestors must be rolling in their graves.

Yes, perhaps the boy once was part of the Hoshidan royal family, but he’d been raised Nohrian—and he’d made it perfectly clear which of the two he preferred. Had he but reclaimed his true name, Jiro would have found it much more tolerable serving under him. Even better if he’d had the rest of the Nohrian dogs in this country thrown out or killed. But no, he was content to lick their boots, and for that, Jiro despises him.

“You seem frustrated,” a soft voice by his ear speaks.

Jiro turns and scowls. The woman next to him is obviously a commoner by the plainness of her clothes; that alone would make her audacious for deigning to address him, even if she didn’t have the hallmarks of a foreigner. Pale-skinned with long brown hair, her features remind him a bit of an owl, large green eyes blinking slowly behind thin spectacles.

“I have nothing to say to a Nohrian,” he sniffs.

She seems unfazed by his attitude, merely saying, “Actually, I’m not Nohrian. I was one of the original populace of Valla.”

Oh. She must have been one of the slaves. A bit shamed, he softens his tone somewhat. “Ah. You have my apologies for the mistakes, and my condolences for what you must have gone through.”

“No offense taken. But back to my original point—you aren’t happy having him rule you, are you?” Her eyes fixate on his, and he shivers; the slow blinking is unnerving. “One could even say you’d prefer to have someone else in charge instead?”

“Careful what words you speak, woman,” he hisses, glancing around surreptitiously, but the crowd is too busy drooling over their new master to pay mind, “They may easily be mistaken for treason, especially in company such as this. And I have no desire to see my head roll.”

“Treason is the furthest thing from my mind.” She sounds sincere enough. “I care about the new Valla as much as any Vallite. And that’s why I want to see it in the hands of its true queen, not the son of Anankos.”

“Yes, well—” Jiro’s head snaps around as _the son of Anankos_ rings through his head. “Beg pardon?”

She smiles. “I see that got your attention. Yes, the truth is, ‘King’ Corrin was never blood-related to your royal family; he was sired by the very same dragon-god who destroyed my country.”

Jiro’s mind races at this news. He’s read the report on Anankos, of course, and while he would never admit it he found the notion of such a being terrifying. Raising the dead? Possessing people? Creating black holes? And of course the madness, brought on by simply being too powerful.

Cold chills run down his spine. He hadn’t been in Shirasagi the day of Prince Corrin’s rampage, but he’d heard about what had happened there. The royals had tried to cover it up, of course, but whispers still floated about. _That is who is in charge of my future? The son of a mad god, who may be a little mad himself?_

“I see you understand my concerns,” the woman says, studying his face closely. “Corrin did us a great service by slaying that beast, and he has my gratitude for that. But who’s to say he won’t end up like his father? I don’t want to see history repeat, and you don’t want to be ruled by a foreigner. It sounds to me we have a common goal.”

“You say this as if being ruled by his betrothed would be much better,” Jiro sniffs, buying for time as he tries to sort out his thoughts. His eyes drift to the woman in question, where she is standing at her beloved’s side, smiling faintly. “She’s just as foreign as he, and her heart is made of ice besides.”

“She was raised Hoshidan, wasn’t she? Surely that puts her above him, in your eyes, at least a little.”

It doesn’t, not really. But…taking the king out of the equation, so to speak, would at least open up more opportunities. Perhaps he’d be able to get a Hoshidan on the throne. Maybe even himself. The thought makes him preen a little.

Still, he’s wary of this woman. “How do you know all this?”

Vaguely, she responds, “Let’s just say, under Anankos’s rule, certain individuals were privy to special information and rights, and leave it at that.”

Jiro hesitates, eyeing her with no small modicum of suspicion. As much as he would love to see the boy removed from power and the Nohrians receive their just punishment, he’s no fool. He doesn’t know this woman, and he has no way to be sure she isn’t trying to trick him into rebellion. Pointing out a traitor would win her quite a bit of favor with the king.

As though reading his mind, the woman smiles reassuringly. “I see you still aren’t convinced. That’s fine. Just think about it, Lord Jiro.” As she steps past him, her hand presses briefly into his. He glances down to see a crumpled piece of paper with some faintly scrawled words on it. A date, a time, a place, and a phrase: _“For the future of Valla_.”

When he looks back up, the woman is gone, and it’s only then he realizes that while she knew his name, she never gave him hers.

* * *

In hindsight, returning to Valla for the coronation was not very wise. But however conflicted and guilty Gunter may feel about his actions, he simply can’t bear to miss such an important occasion for his protégé. He didn’t intend to speak with him or anyone, just witness it and disappear forever. He’d already withdrawn from Nohr, slipping away as the exhausted army returned home, but word got around; he’d heard about Corrin’s impending coronation in time to start planning how to get there. He was old, and clever, and he’d managed to sneak into Castle Avalon with the rest of the crowd.

Trying to leave ahead of the crowd was a mistake. As he’d made his way to the entrance, the guards had blocked his way, spears crossed in front of him, and requested he lower his hood. Unwilling to start a fight, he’d done so, hoping that would be that, but Corrin must have given them his description; they’d seized him immediately and dragged him off.

Now, he sits in a prison cell, patiently waiting for and quietly dreading the inevitable confrontation. It’s nice, as far as cells go; clean, about twelve by twelve by twelve, with a single window high up that lets light and fresh air in. The door is heavy oak wood, with a slot at the bottom for food and a barred window people can look in and out of. The cot is simple, but he’s slept on far worse.

He’s in there for perhaps a day before his ears pick up footsteps, then hushed voices, on the other side. Gunter takes a seat on the bed and casts his eyes down as the door creaks open. He stares at the bare feet of the man he once considered a son, shame preventing him from looking at him directly.

“Gunter,” Corrin finally speaks, “Look at me.”

It is not a suggestion. Slowly he lifts his gaze. Corrin is standing there, in his new kingly armor and crown, looking regal and very out of place in the prison. Three familiar faces hover behind him, one concerned, one expressionless, one angry. Pain laces through him at the sight.

“Lord Corrin. Felicia. Flora. Jakob.” The names stick in his throat like a meat bone; it takes some effort to get them out.

Before anyone can speak, Jakob turns away stiffly. “I have nothing to say to you, old man. You are dead to me. I only came down here to tell you that, and now I shall take my leave.”

The words were aimed at Gunter, yet it is Corrin who looks wounded. “Jakob—”

“He betrayed you, Lord Corrin!” the butler snaps. In a quieter voice, so low Gunter almost misses it, he adds, “He betrayed us.”

“So did I,” Flora says quietly, eyes downcast.

“That’s different,” Jakob argues. “You were coerced into it by Garon. The old man did so of his own free will. He put the _world_ at stake for a grudge born over a decade again, betraying those who cared for him in the process! And then he has the _nerve_ to come back as if nothing had happened!”

His fury breaks his normally haughty composure, his face flushing red and voice rising with anger. The butler takes a deep breath, visibly trying to compose himself. Then, straightening his jacket, Jakob storms out with nary a final glance in Gunter’s direction.

Flora sighs. “Gunter…I will not cast judgment on you for your crimes. Mine were similar, after all. But I’m still not ready to forgive you yet. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is resigned. “He is not wrong.”

She nods, and stands there, awkward. Her sister fiddles her fingers together, biting her lip before finally speaking up. “Um, um…I want to say…I’m glad you’re alright, Gunter. But I just…”

Felicia sniffs and rubs her eyes. “I just…it hurts so much what you did. You didn’t even give me or Flora or Jakob a spare thought before trying to kill us. We meant so little to you, you couldn’t even take the time to acknowledge us.”

She glances at Corrin. “I’m sorry, Lord Corrin, I still can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he reassures. “Neither of you has to stay. I’ll be fine—there are guards right here, though I don’t think he’ll try anything.”

With a soft “thank you” the twins depart, and Gunter is left alone with the man he betrayed. His gaze drifts back down to the floor.

It’s true—he hadn’t given the servants a second thought. He’s been so caught up in turmoil for betraying his liege that he’s forgotten the others he’d betrayed as well. But he’d practically raised them as best he knew, loved them as best he could with his crooked heart, and then discarded them. The guilt is so thick it almost chokes him.

“Gunter, won’t you look at me?”

Steadfastly, he responds, “No. I am shamed, my lord. I am dishonored for what I did to you and the others.”

“What? Gunter, no, that’s not true!” His old charge beseeches, and it makes Gunter cringe. “I don’t hold you accountable to your crimes; I only wanted to speak with you, that’s why I told the guards to arrest you if they saw you, seeing as you ran away whenever I approached you. After this I’ll have you released from prison, and you can come live with us again.”

 _Still so idealistic, even now, even after everything Anankos and I tried to do to you._ “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t do that. I didn’t come back with the intention of staying; I merely wanted to see you become the man I knew you could be, and then disappear forever, as I should.”

“Because of what happened in Valla? I told you, that was Anankos’s doing, not yours.”

Gunter laughs bitterly. “That, my lord, is where you are mistaken.”

He can still recall the feel of Anankos’s presence, cold and dark and scaly like a snake against his mind, that low voice in his ear crooning of vengeance. The memory disgusts him, and venomously he spits, “Anankos did not _merely_ possess you, as you seem to think. He could not control the living as he could the dead, not without their permission. And he made you _want_ to give him that permission. He reached deep into your heart, found your greatest, deepest desires and secrets, and promised that he would deliver them.  You could say no, but he would stay in the back of your mind, and every time you were reminded of your powerlessness, he’d be there, offering everything you wanted for so little in return…

“But once you let him in, he grabbed and twisted your will, until that single desire dominated your every waking moment. It festered and became an obsession, which he used to clasp your mind even tighter in his claws. Yes, he was the one in control of me in Valla, but he would never have had possession of my body if I hadn’t given it to him. I am at fault here.”

Weakly, Corrin tries to protest, “I forgave you—”

“That does not make things suddenly alright!”

Corrin takes a step back in shock as Gunter’s head snaps up, one fist pounding on his knee. The guards shift, hands going to their weapons. Gunter ignores them, anger bubbling over like a full cauldron, “You have to learn that just because _you_ have come to term with things, does not mean others have. That you cannot force others to feel as you do.” The old knight clenches his fists, feeling them tremble with frustration and self-loathing. “I swore my service to you, and I betrayed you. I betrayed Flora and Felicia and Jakob and my entire country. I am an oathbreaker, a traitor, and an attempted regicide. Those are crimes that _cannot_ simply be forgiven.”

“Gunter…”

“This is not solely about you and just because you have forgiven me does not mean the rest of the world will, as we just saw.” Quieter, he finishes, “It does not mean I have forgiven myself.”

_And until I have, I cannot bear to stand in your presence. The guilt…is too much._

For a long moment, the king does not respond, and Gunter knows it’s because he know he’s right. When Corrin finally does speak, he sounds so young, as though he were a boy again, come running to Gunter crying because of a nightmare. “Is there nothing I can say that will convince you to stay?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

Corrin gazes at him a moment longer. Silence hangs between, the final death knell of a broken relationship. Then, he closes his eyes. “Guards?” he calls.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” the duo asks in union.

“Have this man freed. Return to him his weapons, horse and armor. Give him a bag of gold and food, and let him be on his way. If you see him again…leave him be.”

They snap a salute. One moves to fetch the requested things; the other unshackles Gunter. He slowly rubs his wrists, staring at the ground, still unable to look his benefactor in the eye.

“You don’t wish to keep me imprisoned?” he questions, “Or hand me over to King Xander? He’d be more than happy to dispense the justice you haven’t.”

“You think poorly of my brother and I. But given what Garon did to you, that’s not a surprise.” Corrin shakes his head, his features resigned. “I don’t want you dead, or to keep you trapped forever. You…you have your freedom, to live your life as you wish it.”

“I see.” The guard takes him by the arm and begins to lead him outside.

“I wish you well, Gunter,” Corrin’s voice, drifting over his shoulder, is heavy and sad. “I hope…I hope I see you again someday. Whatever the rest of the world thinks…you’ll always be welcome in Valla.”

Gunter needs to stop and swallow the lump in his throat. He takes a moment to compose himself, then says, firm and regretful, “Goodbye, Lord Corrin.”

He could swear he hears a quiet “Goodbye, Father,” as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I never planned to change Gunter’s ending from the game—it fits him very well. I just wanted to let him and Corrin talk one last time, since I felt they never got proper closure. And I wanted Corrin to learn that sometimes, there are some things you just can’t fix.


	7. Chapter 7

 

“How much longer will you be able to stay?” Azura asks her sisters, three days after Corrin’s coronation. They’re gathered in the parlor, the open window allowing sunshine and a light breeze to freshen the room. Felicia had brought in some cushions for them all to sit on, a compromise between Nohrian chairs and Hoshidan floors, and a low table with a tea pot and a plate of rapidly-disappearing cookies sits between them.

Sakura shrugs, eyelashes fluttering shyly as she carefully sips her tea. “A few more days, I should think. It’s been a bit of a long trip. K-King Xander and Ryoma left their castles in able hands, so Leo said it shouldn’t be a problem to sp-spare a little time to recover.”

“ _Leo_ , hmm?” she teases, smiling. “When did you start referring to him by his first name?”

As Sakura blushes and flusters, Hinoka rolls her eyes, used to the sibling antics. “Lay off her, Azura. She’s got a crush, haven’t we all had them?”

“I-It’s not a cr-crush!”

“Clearly not; my brother must return the sentiment to allow you to drop the title,” Camilla remarks, her own mouth twisting upwards mischievously.

“And if he ever does anything uncouth, let me know and I’ll give him a piece of my mind, prince or not,” Hinoka adds, unable to pretend to have a serious face any more.

“You’re awful! C-Can’t you go tease Elise about her relationship with Ryoma instead?”

“Hey, what’d I do?” the blonde protests, pouting.

Azura chuckles; it’s nice to see her sisters again. She had a bit of a rocky start with Elise, and she and Camilla never got the chance to really talk during the war, so it makes her value the time together even more. Privately she hopes things work out between Sakura and Leo, and Elise and Ryoma, although she’s skeptical; the populaces could either see a relationship between Hoshidan and Nohrian royalty as a beacon of unity and hope, or a deep betrayal. And that would affect how much unrest Xander and Ryoma had to deal with—the worst case being suppressing revolts. Doubtless her sisters have reached the same conclusion, and the teasing is simply a way to laugh the deeper political implications off.

She’s fending Elise off from stealing one of her cookies when Mozu enters with barely a knock. “Lady Azura, I—oh!” She stops short, face growing red as the other princesses turn to her, realizing the social faux pas she just made. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were entertaining guests.”

“It’s fine, Mozu. What did you want?” Elise takes advantage of her distraction by snatching the snack off her plate; Azura rolls her eyes at her.

“Oh, I just wanted to return the book you loaned me.” The farm girl holds it up as if a testament to her intentions, shivering. “Gods, it was terrifying! But pretty good at the same time. I almost screamed at the part with the dungeon full of corpses and brainwashed shapeshifters. Poor things.”

She remembers that part. It had left her unable to sleep that night, delightfully frightening as shivers crawled up and down her spine. “Haha, yes, I reacted the same my first time reading it. I’m not done with yours, sorry.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. Felicia’s not finished either. You just take your time and bring it back…whenever, really.”

With that, Mozu places the book next to Azura, apologizes again for the interruption, and scurries off.

“You know, I can’t believe I never asked this before,” Camilla comments, watching the brunette go, “but what does she _do_ around here? And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

“Odd jobs, I believe.” Azura frowns, trying to recollect any memories she has of seeing Mozu work. “She particularly likes helping out in the gardens and kitchens—there’s no farmland within easy reaching distance. Recently, since Lady Chalon came up, she’s been taking some lessons on how to be a noble—etiquette and managing expenses and things.”

“But she doesn’t have an actual job?” Camilla clarifies, sipping her tea.

“…No.”

“M-Maybe you could hire her on as a retainer?” Sakura suggests. “You two s-seem to get along, and you _are_ royalty. You should h-have at least one.”

It’s a strange thought to Azura, but not a bad idea. She’s not surprised it hadn’t occurred to her—she hadn’t been old enough to have retainers in Nohr, and in Hoshido she’d been a glorified political prisoner. Prisoners didn’t get retainers. Even if they had, there would have been very few she would have trusted to guard over her.

“It would probably make her feel better,” Azura muses, almost to herself, “She mentioned a few days ago that she hates feeling useless.”

“So run it by her!” Elise says brightly.

“Yes, I think I will. Thank you.”

* * *

And so she does, the next day.

Mozu gapes at her, mouth reminiscent of a fish’s, hands halting in their nervous wringing. “Y-Your retainer? Me?”

“Yes.” Azura folds her hands on her lap. “You’re a fine soldier, and I…enjoy your company, which is more than I can say for most.”

She’d caught Mozu on her way back from her daily appointments with Lady Chalon, and pulled her into the same parlor as yesterday. Rather than just jumping to the purpose of her meeting, as she once would have, Azura had tried to get Mozu to relax by engaging in small-talk—she was getting better at it, she felt a bit proud to say.

Though not good enough to naturally lead into it, judging by how it had completely blindsided Mozu.

“L-Lady Azura, I’m very honored, but…w-would I even have time for that? I’m already frazzled trying to learn all the ins and outs of nobility…”

“You won’t have to guard me every hour of every day; Kaze and Silas don’t trail Corrin everywhere, after all. Just during battle, ceremonies, and when I’m out in public.” She paused. “Which probably won’t be too often, so really, you’re getting off easy.”

Her attempt at humor works; Mozu chuckles softly. Azura continues, “Other than that, you’ll probably be given missions I can’t trust to anyone else—anything from running errands to holding an investigation. You’ll also share some duties with the servants, such as fetching my meals or folding clothes. That’s it, really.”

Having all her potential duties listed out before her seems to calm Mozu down, oddly, and her expression turns thoughtful, one finger tapping her mouth absently.

“Well, I was kind of looking for…a sign, or something, about what I should do. Praying to the gods and all that. And now you come along and drop this in my lap…” She shakes her head, brown eyes filled with wonder. “Me, an official royal retainer. Wow. I never thought someone like me would even be offered such an honor. How could I refuse? I—thank you, Lady Azura. I’ll do my best to serve you well.”

The songstress smiles at her encouragingly. “If you work half as diligently as you did in the war, I have no doubt you will.”

Mozu nods. Shifts her weight. Then blurts out, “So, um, is there some ceremony of something?”

“In Hoshido, I believe you simply have to swear your service to the liege, who could accept or refuse as they saw fit. If it was in private, it would be made public knowledge later, and that was it. I don’t know if that’s the same in Nohr and Valla, but as you have Hoshidan origins, and I was raised Hoshidan, it should suffice.”

“Okay…” Mozu nods, seemingly taking a few moments to gather her thoughts. Then, taking a deep breath, she takes a knee and recites, “I, Mozu of the former Komura village, vow to protect you with my life. I’ll, um, guard you as though you were my own kin, and I shall never betray my oath to you.” She peeks up. “Was that okay? I don't know the formal oath...”

“It was fine,” Azura reassures her. She’d brought her lance with her in anticipation of this, so she touches the brunette’s shoulder with it. “I accept your vow of service. You may rise.”

Mozu does, smoothing out her skirts, and the princess adds, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks!” The freckled girl giggles. “Would it be big-headed of me to whip up a celebratory meal?”

Azura cracks a smile. “I think you could be forgiven.”

* * *

In the past year and a half, Corrin has faced many trials—being forced to choose between two families he loves, being pronounced a traitor when he refused, trying to figure out how to stop Anankos when he couldn’t tell anyone about him. He has battled armies, monsters, undead, his own parents, and slain a god. Learned the painful truth of his heritage and done more paperwork than he can count.

Sometimes, he thinks dealing with all that was easier than holding court. 

The man before him, a Nohrian lord in a rich green doublet, is stabbing a finger furiously at the Hoshidan woman next to him, finishing up his summation of whatever quarrel they have. His furious features match the sneering expression on her face perfectly. “And then this—this Hoshidan scum refused to pay me proper respect!”

“Me? My king, please don’t listen to this fool—it was _he_ who disrespected _me_! Not only that, he _threatened_ me as well!”

“ _Threatened?_ I was trying to meet your gaze and _you_ averted it! That’s far more suspicious!”

The pair are, he recalls, a baron and the widowed wife of a daimyo, whose proximity to Elysium, heritage, and similar fields of business quickly birthed a rivalry. Their status is the only reason they’re even able to bring a small matter like this all the way up to him, instead of to a local constable. That and their inflated sense of self-importance.

It’s probably not a good sign that he’s getting mentally snarky, and he forces himself to exhale. Snapping at them won’t do any good.

Corrin rubs his forehead, trying not to slouch in his throne—he’s already been here for five hours, and he still has several more to go. “Lord Varius, she wasn’t trying to insult you by not looking into your eyes,” he says, working to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Hoshidans consider extended eye contact rude. And he wasn’t trying to offend _you_ by trying to hold your gaze, Lady Shizuka; Nohrians consider it disrespectful _not_ to meet ones’ eyes.”

He understands the cross-cultural confusion—he’d gone through it himself, his first time in Hoshido—but this is a simple problem that could have been solved if they’d just _talked_ to each other, instead of bringing it to him. This isn’t even the first case today, and probably not the last either.

Perhaps he should have someone write up a memo about Hoshidan and Nohrian cultural differences and nail it to every door in every city in Valla, just so his citizens stop having communication breakdowns. Would that be too direct? Probably.

Chastised, the pair move on, and the next attendant steps forward. “Your Majesty!” This time it’s a portly woman in the priestly robes of a shrine maiden. “As you know, for some time people have been congregating by the statues of the Dusk and Dawn Dragons to worship. But which would you have Valla officially follow, and how long until we can expect proper places to pray at?”

Now there’s a good, real question. “We won’t have an official religion; people can worship whichever one they want,” he answers firmly. Nohr had worked like that, kind of—Garon had made Anankos the “official” god, but it was an open secret that many still worshipped the Dusk Dragon. He himself had grown up doing so, having little idea of Anankos’s existence at all in his sequestered fortress. “I am putting aside money for churches and shrines to be built, rest assured; I estimate we can have one of each constructed in a year.”

The shrine maiden purses her lips, apparently unhappy at having to tolerate Nohrian religion, but bows out gracefully. After that, he turns down the burgeoning petition to have Lilith punished, approves a request to restore noble status to a Vallite family, handles several _more_ cases of cultural misalignment, and answers dozens of questions and concerns about almost any subject he can imagine, from agriculture to commerce to education to infrastructure. Several hours later, the court is _finally_ closed, dispersing with quiet murmurs, and he rises from the throne, popping his back with a grimace.

As far as he can tell, the nobles tolerate him. They aren’t fond of him, but he hasn’t yet done anything to anger them, either. Not everyone has been so difficult—he’d had a pleasant meeting with that ambassador from Nestra a few days after his coronation, before seeing him off, and the Vallites are always happy to see him. But it’s still taxing, even for someone with his usual charisma.

With an exhale, Corrin turns and jumps as Kaze appears almost literally out of thin air. “Gah! Gods, Kaze, someone needs to put a bell on you.”

“My apologies, Lord Corrin,” his retainer responds, bowing. “I will endeavor to make my appearances less sudden in the future. How was court?”

He sighs. “Trying—I’m still not used to the bull-headed nobles or the bombardment of inquiries. How badly do you think the nobles would react if I raised their taxes?”

“In my experience, people always react terribly to paying more.”

“Well, the entire area from Yamamoto to Hikawa Bridge was damaged in the war, I have Hoshidan citizens demanding Nohrian ones pay for it, and I can’t think of a faster way to raise money for repairs. I’ve spoken with Azura, Camilla and Hinoka about it, and they can’t think of anything, either.”

“Then I suggest you brace yourself for backlash, and try to find ways to win back the favor you’ll lose. In any case, I have for you the weekly summary of reports from my spies.”

Corrin takes the papers with relief.  Unfortunately, he’d gotten very few ninja from Hoshido, and so Kaze had been made his spymaster. It wasn’t a designated position, but a vital one, and he could think of no one better for the job. He doesn’t have many spies, but the information they bring in is useful. Word of his nobles’ alliances, marriages, incomes, armies, it’s all important in reading them in court. There’s also the flipside, the spies looking into the darker side of Valla, the underbelly, keeping their ears open for unrest or unusual activity. Though it’s too early for conspiracies, he hopes.

“Good job, Kaze,” he smiles. “Though I wish you wouldn’t encode these. Ninja cant is hard to decipher…”

Kaze’s lips twitch, his usual formal mask slipping a bit to let his playful side through. “Consider it an incentive to learn it yourself. Actually, I think it would be useful for you and Lady Azura to know at least the basics, in case either of you ever needed to send an encoded message yourselves.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Gunter would have recommended he learn it as well.

The thought of his old mentor—the closest he had to a real father—causes his chest to tighten painfully. He’d honestly thought he would be able to convince Gunter to stay, and that everything would be alright. But Gunter had had a point: just because he’s accepted things, doesn’t mean others will, nor can he force them to. Isn’t he living that daily, now, with the Hoshidans and Nohrians of his country barely able to stand each other? It had been the knight’s final lesson.

Corrin turns to his friend. “In fact, how about we do that right now? I don’t think I have anything scheduled for the rest of today, and I could use a distraction.”

* * *

Jiro wrinkles his nose as he steps gingerly through the streets of Fujisaka, one of the largest towns in his jurisdiction, careful not to catch the hem of his hakama against the mud puddles from last night’s rain. Large towns usually mean messy, smelly towns, and despite Fujisaka’s pretty location near flower fields, it has its share of ugliness. Especially the red light district he’s currently traversing through, where the roads are grimy and thugs lurk. Only the presence of his escort keeps them from attacking him, he’s certain.

He counts buildings quietly until he finds the one he’s looking for, situated on the corner of the street with its tiled roof and yellow walls. Jiro peers up at the sign— _The Merrymakers_ —and smiles. “I do love places like these,” he says to himself, and indicating for his guards to wait outside slides open the door. Partially for the business, of course, but also partially because it’s a good place to meet—all sorts of people visit brothels, so no one thinks twice of a noble and commoner passing by inside.

The interior is warm and cozy, with soft lighting and Hoshidan furnishing. Double, twining staircases lead to a second floor. Were it not for the perfumed, brightly-clothed men and women lounging about, it could have been mistaken for nothing but a nice inn. As is, while the courtesans are a treat for the eyes, they’re not what he’s here for…today, at least.

He takes the stairs, finds the room number designated on the card, and enters.

“Hello, Lord Jiro,” Laurel greets from her foreign, cross-legged position on the tatami mat. It’s their third meeting in person since the coronation four months ago, and thus far all he’s gotten out of her is her name. The bespectacled woman is a friend of the owner, or so she claims, and that’s how she was able to get usage of this room.

She wastes no time in getting straight to business. “Is your servant in place?”

“Yes,” he says. “Do you have…?”

She takes out a small leather pouch and hands it to him before he can finish speaking. He weighs it carefully; it’s so deceptively light. So harmless at a glance. Even what’s tucked inside doesn’t look like it could bring down a king.

“I’m impressed,” he admits, “When you suggested this, I didn’t think you could get your hands on it.”

Laurel smiles her bird-of-prey smile and adjusts her glasses. “Nestra’s queen may be willing to forgive Valla, but there are always a select few with a grudge, and I have my share of connections. It took a bit of time, but it’s only a matter of finding the right person.”

He nods; he himself has been carefully perusing his contacts, fellow nobles and trade partners, assessing which of them he can trust to back him when the time comes for his own personal bid for the throne.

Normally that would be it, but there’s been a question weighing on him lately. “Before we leave, I want you to answer something for me,” he says bluntly.

Laurel raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Who are you, really? You have this secret knowledge that our king is fathered by Anankos—” part of him still can’t believe they aren’t using that against him, but she’d pointed out that assassination was faster than a smear campaign, “contacts in Nestra, and unlike most of the Vallites here, you aren’t lapping at his feet. I’m no fool; you have a secret. And unless you tell me what it is—”

“You’ll leave?” She sounds amused. “Give up on your ambitions of overthrowing the king? Lord Jiro, don’t bluff with an empty hand. You don’t need to know my past to work with me.”

“Yes, but I need to know—” He stops, glaring. _I need to know if you’ll pose a problem when it’s my turn to rule_. After all, she’d hinted that she wanted Princess Azura on the throne; would she try to assassinate him, too, if she found out he thought differently?

Laurel cocks her head owlishly. “Here is what I will tell you,” she finally says. “Dragons are _not_ humans. They can look it, but they are not. And when dragons rule humans, it doesn’t end well. I’ve seen that first hand. I want to save Valla from once again being ruled by a dragon. That’s all I’m after. My past has no bearing on this, and it won’t endanger you, for the duration of our alliance or after.”

Jiro exhales slowly. “Very well. Have your secrets; just don’t expect me to give you any of mine.” Quietly, he decides to have his own men investigate her, if they can. She’s a commoner, but surely there’s a record somewhere of her history. At the very least the other former slaves may know of her.

* * *

Nestor leans back and examines his work with a critical eye. Wood carving used to be a hobby of his, before Anankos usurped the throne. After—well, spending your daylight hours repairing or forging weapons for his army and your evening hours shivering in the open wilderness didn’t leave a lot of free time. But he’s slowly been trying to resume the practice. It helps keep the memories away, he finds.

He sets the little wooden bird aside, smiling, when footsteps echo behind him, in a gait he knows all too well. The old man turns, one hand automatically going to the carving knife, an ingrained response. It’s _her_ , Anankos’s daughter, standing in the open doorway to his room with her gaze low and hands clasped. Her body posture and expression scream meekness, contriteness, but he knows better than to be fooled.

Nestor scowls. “What do you want?”

Her eyes stay down. “Only to say I’m sorry for what I did….and to ask a question.”

The _audacity_ —his grip tightens on his knife, and he forces himself to put it down. Lord Corrin had explicitly forbade anyone from harming her, and he doesn’t trust himself to hold it and not attack her. “Do you expect that to make me _forgive_ you? For that to erase the years of pain and slavery under your father’s rule? To erase how _you_ partook in our torment?”

His back can still feel the sting of the whip against it, cracking sharp as her spiteful voice snapped at them to work faster. She hadn’t _always_ overseen them—most of the time it had been some undead abomination—but when she did, she was very thorough. And cruel. Sometimes they didn’t even have to do anything wrong to earn her ire—sometimes she just wanted to see them afraid.

He’s only grateful his family had already been dead before Anankos invaded, so that they’d been spared that. And given how none of them had been combatants, it was unlikely Anankos would have raised them. He lets that comfort him when he wakes up from the nightmares.

“No, I don’t.” She lifts her gaze to meet his evenly. “What I did was terrible; I abused the power I held over the slaves. I took my anger and hurt out on you all, because it was convenient. It was wrong of me, and I just want you to know that I _am_ sorry.”

So it sounds like the rumors are true. He’s heard some of the other Vallite servants whisper of how she had been going around, personally apologizing to every single person she’s wronged and trying to make it up to them. No wonder it’s taking her months. It's admirable, but... "Even so, I cannot forgive you. I don't know if I can ever forgive you. So please, do us both a favor and stay away from me."

She quietly nods. "I will, after this. Will you answer my question for me, though?"

He sighs. "What is it?" “Do you blame Lord Corrin for my crimes?” Her gold eyes bore into his, their unnerving cat-eye pupils highlighting just how inhuman she is. “Some would say that by taking me under his wing, he’s claiming responsibility for them himself.”

Nestor shakes his head vehemently. “No. He has done nothing but good for Valla, and he’s proven himself to be an able leader. More than that…” His fist clenches, remembering the suspicion he’d felt when the white-haired man had first pushed through the bushes; the fear that this was some cruel jape; then the relief when he realized _they were free_. “He saved us. Even if I weren’t sworn to his service, I would be loyal to him for the rest of my life for that.”

“And my father’s crimes? As king of Valla, he inherited the fallout for them.”

What’s the purpose of such a question? “The answer is still no.”

She smiles, softly. “So you don’t blame him for my crimes or Anankos’s. That’s good...” Bowing, she says, “Thank you for assuaging my worries. And again, I’m sorry for everything.”

“Just go,” he mumbles, suddenly tired, and she does.

* * *

“Are you feeling alright?” Azura asks as Corrin leads her down the castle’s halls, his larger hand warm in her own. It’s been only a week since his decision to raise the noble’s taxes, and the recent uproar over it has caused him to look stressed and wane of late. Between that and his encounter with Gunter before that, she’s been concerned about him.

Corrin gives her a tight, sad smile. “No. But I will be.”

Azura nods, and follows him the rest of the way in silence. She’s not sure what would warrant Corrin taking an early leave of his duties, as he has today, just to spend time with her. But if there’s anything she can do to comfort him, she will.

They start climbing the stairs, and she recognizes the turns they’re taking as leading to his private quarters. In a few minutes, they arrive; he holds open the door for her. She steps inside and her eyes immediately go to the newest addition. “Corrin, what is that?”

There, along the east wall of the solar, is a grand piano. Corrin runs a hand along the top of it lovingly and gives her a hopeful smile. “ _This_ is the piano I had back in the Northern Fortress. I had to learn to play an instrument as part of my education, and this is what I chose. I asked Xander if he could have it delivered here—it actually came in a while ago, but I spent a bit of time brushing up on my skills. S-so I was wondering…maybe we could do a duet?”

Azura takes the sheet music and flips through it with a critical eye. It’s a sappy Nohrian love song, one she’s heard of but never sang, and that makes her a bit leery. She hasn’t had time to warm up or practice at all, either. But Corrin knows her range well—the notes are pretty much perfect for her—and the thought of performing with him is a nice one. It’s unusually spontaneous of her, but she gives her agreement.

The way his face lights up makes her glad she did. Corrin takes a seat at the piano, removing his gloves and setting them aside to rest his fingers against the keys. Azura silently moves to stand by it, leaning over his shoulder to read.

The albino starts playing, the notes light and cheerful. He plays the piano beautifully, Azura idly notes, although his shoulders are tense. She waits for her entrance, then breaks into melodic verse: _“Once when the land was green and new/There was a knight of home and hearth and prayer/though none he loved more than his maiden fair…”_

Minutes melt away as she loses herself in the music, in the chimes of the piano and the crests and descents of the notes. The act of singing has always been her greatest joy, this, and it is made all the more enjoyable by the fact she can share it with Corrin.

She flips the last page for Corrin and finishes the song, “ _And he said to his love, ‘But oh!/The happiest man on the continent I would be/if you would simply marry me…”_

The final note is a long one, a fermata that she chooses to hold for eight breaths, extending past the piano’s last soft sigh. Her eyes involuntarily slide shut, feeling the note resonate throughout her heart and soul. When it dies, she feels briefly revitalized, in a way that has nothing to do with the usual magic of her songs and everything to do with her passion for this art.

Azura opens her eyes, smiling. “That was lovel—Corrin?”

Corrin is down on one knee before her, a ring in his hand, and oh. _Oh._ The word ‘breathless’ must have been created specifically for moments like this, as all the air leaves Azura’s lungs in a quiet little gasp. Her hands move to cover her mouth without her permission.

He swallows, visibly nervous, then in a rush begins, “Azura, I love you. I, um, I really wanted to write a song for you, but I don’t know how to sing or songwrite and I didn’t want to mess up, so I decided to go with my strengths. I decided to dedicate the most romantic song in Nohr to the most beautiful, wonderful woman in the world. And even then, the feelings in that song are only a fraction of my feelings for you.  Will you honor me by marrying me? Will you give me with the chance to learn to sing with you, so we can write the next verse of life’s song together?”

She giggles, wondering if it’s possible to just float away in happiness. “Oh my gods, yes! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, Corrin! I love you!”

He exhales hugely and takes her hand, somewhat shakily sliding the engagement ring onto her finger. “Oh thank the gods. I was afraid that it was too sappy or—”

“It was perfect,” she interrupts, smiling wider than she possibly has in her entire life. “Get up here.”

And as he obligingly rises, moving in to kiss her deeply, Azura catches the light winking on her new ring, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you Saizo/Setsuna support for giving me information on what retainers actually do when they aren’t protecting their lord in battle.
> 
> Also, yeah, Ryoma/Elise is a thing here, for a few reasons: notably that he needs a Nohrian bride for a later plot point, and I genuinely liked his supports with Elise. Definitely more than with Camilla. I don’t really mind the age difference since the game makes it clear that, by their standards, she’s an adult, though I’m aware some people might be uncomfortable with it. So nothing will come of it until she’s at least sixteen, which is the modern-day age of consent in most places and hopefully an age most of us will be comfortable with. I would push it back to eighteen, but for story reasons that can’t happen.
> 
> Name meanings:
> 
> Mountain laurel is a flower, as you probably know. What you probably don’t know is that laurel is a poisonous flower. And in ancient Greek society, the leaves of a laurel tree were also used to crown a victor. It’s the exact sort of dual symbolism I adore.
> 
> Yamamoto translates to “base of the mountain”. It, and the below, are not places in Fates, but places I created for the purposes of the fic—in this case a village. Geographically, you can probably tell that it’s near the Bottomless Canyon.
> 
> Hikawa translates to “red river”. Useless bit of worldbuilding trivia: it earned the name because of a huge battle that took place long ago, with casualties so high the river ran red with blood for days. (include in fic?)
> 
> Fujisaka translates to “wisteria slope”.
> 
> Komura is literally “little village”.
> 
> I’m far from an expert in Japanese, so if I messed up any of these names, please tell me!


	8. Chapter 8

 

The departures of Ladies Camilla and Hinoka, the betrothal announcement of Lord Corrin and Lady Azura, the preparations for their engagement banquet—the past few days have been a whirlwind of activity and change that threatens to knock Felicia off her feet. But it is the latest event that occupies her thoughts the most, as she scrubs mindlessly at plates and silverware.

Namely, the firing of herself, her sister, and Jakob by Lord Corrin.

 _Not firing,_ her mind corrects, _just being released from service_.

But to her, it feels like firing. It feels like failure.

He’d called them into his chamber yesterday, greeting them in his casual black tunic and pants. His crown was resting on the table and his cape slung haphazardly over a chair. Jakob, ever the perfectionist, had immediately gone over to fold it properly, fussing about wrinkles and ironing.

_“Leave it, Jakob,” Lord Corrin said, smiling wryly. “Fixing my room isn’t what I called you here for.”_

_“Apologies, my lord.” The silver-haired man took a step back, rejoining Felicia and Flora in line. The servants looked at the king, patiently waiting as he paced._

_“I suppose it’s best to just get it out with,” he finally said. Turning, he continued, “I’m releasing you from my service.”_

_Lord Corrin raised a hand, forestalling Jakob’s initial protests._

_“You were all forced into my service by King Garon,” he explained, eyes apologetic. “You’ve all been dear friends and comrades to me, but your oaths weren’t given of your own will. I should have given you leave to go where you please long ago, and for that I apologize. So…I release you from your service to me.”_

Felicia sighs heavily, remembering how the breath had been knocked out of her lungs after that announcement. She and Flora had stood there, too stunned to react; Jakob had, of course, tried to immediately kneel on the spot and pledge his service again, but Lord Corrin had insisted they take a few days to think things over.

For her, there’s not really anything _to_ think over. She likes working as a maid, she likes the friends she’s made here, and Kaze would certainly not be parted from his lord’s side; staying in Castle Avalon and continuing her job is the only option. But she can’t help but worry. She knows she’s not the best at maidwork. She’s only recently started improving at it, at a pace some would say is too slow for someone who’d tried for years. Would Lord Corrin even want her around? After all, he had a whole castle of maids and butlers at his disposal now…

“Of course he will.” Felicia starts, not realizing she’d asked it out loud, and looks over at Flora. Her sister gives her a small smile. “You have heart and passion in what you do. More than that, you know he considers us friends. He won’t throw us out of the castle for not being as talented as others.”

“Oh, I know,” she admits, laying aside the plate and taking a cup, scrubbing the insides. As she’s been released from service, cleaning isn’t something she _has_ to do, but she and her sister still enjoy it, and no one minds extra help. “But…I still worry.”

Flora nods, and returns to her own task. After a few minutes of working in silence Felicia tries to broach the topic again. “What about you, Flora? What’ll you do?”

Flora scrubs at her plate for a while before responding. “I think I might go back home.”

At first Felicia doesn’t understand what her sister means. But when she does, the cup she’d been scrubbing slips from her hands and breaks on the floor. She ignores it to stare at Flora in shock. “Back—back to the Ice Tribe? But…why?”

Efficient as ever, Flora kneels down with a duster to sweep up the shards. “As the eldest, it’s my eventual duty to take up leadership after our father passes. But more than that, sometimes I just feel as though I don’t have a place here.

“I was never like you, Felicia—I couldn’t let go of my grudge against Nohr for holding us hostage. While you, Lord Corrin and Jakob forged friendships, I stayed aloof. I only had you, and now, not only do you have so many new friends, you have Kaze as well.”

Upset, Felicia blurts, “That doesn’t mean I don’t need you! I told you already, didn’t I? You’re my role model, my twin sister! I have a lot of friends, but only one sister. I’ll _always_ need you.”

Flora’s face softens, and she takes Felicia’s hands in hers. “I remember. And I don’t mean to doubt how much you love me, and I you. But I don’t really have any friends here, outside of our little group, and we’re often too busy to see each other. It’s a bit lonely, and it’s not the only reason.”

The blue-haired girl takes a few moments to collect herself. “It’s painful to stay,” her sister continues quietly, “It’s painful to be around Jakob and be so in love with him when he just thinks of me as a friend. It’s painful to see other people be happy when I’m not.” She gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I hate seeing other people happy. Isn’t that just the worst? I’m such a terrible person—”

It’s not until she hears the _smack_ , and feels the stinging in her palm, that Felicia registers she’d slapped her sister. Flora raises a hand to her cheek in shock, staring at the strawberry-blonde, whose eyes are starting to fill with tears of anger.

“You are not! You are not. Being jealous, wanting to be happy for yourself, that doesn’t make you terrible unless you try to destroy others’ happiness! And you wouldn’t do that. Because no matter how lowly you think of yourself, I know you’re a good person. Lord Corrin and Jakob know it too, or they wouldn’t have forgiven you.” She almost doesn’t say the next words, but it’s been years—they need to be said by now. “And if you want things to change with Jakob…well, you should just come out and tell him already.”

Flora looks down. “It’s not that easy.” Her voice comes out at a whisper. “I’m one of the few people he respects—what if he thinks I’m just some lovestruck idiot, and I lose even that?”

Sympathy shoots through Felicia. “I know. I know it’s scary. I was scared too, about Kaze not requiting my feelings. But nothing’s going to change unless you make it. If neither of us had confessed, we’d still be dancing around the issue. If you confess, he might reciprocate, and you can start courting like Lord Corrin and I have been waiting for the past…I don’t know how many years.”

“What if he _doesn’t_?” Flora’s voice cracks. “He’s never shown any sign of liking me as more than a friend.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, then…then you at least know, and you can start to move on with your life.” Trying for a joke, she adds, “Besides, we both know Jakob’s as dense as a brick. He wouldn’t realize your feelings for him if you hit him over the head with a sign saying ‘Flora’s in love with you’. It might not be that he _doesn’t_ return your feelings, but that he just genuinely doesn’t notice them.”

Her sister laughs, and Felicia beams, pleased at her success. Then she continues, a bit more somber, “If you’re going to leave, that’s…I’ll miss you, of course, but I trust you know what’s best for you. But I at least want you to do everything you can for yourself, first. Because you deserve to be happy.”

“Felicia, I—”

“Repeat after me: I deserve to be happy.”

“...I…I deserve to be happy.” Flora inhales. “Alright. I…I will try. Could you…” She looks almost embarrassed. “When we’re done here, could you help me practice, first?”

Felicia beams again. “Of course!”

They return to the cleaning, but her sister looks a bit more hopeful, and the weight on Felicia’s heart is lifted.

* * *

His siblings had all sent letters, congratulating him on his engagement—Camilla’s had been teasing, telling him he should have done it before she left so she could spoil her step-sister. Xander was engaged as well, though Ryoma wanted to give the Hoshidans more time to get used to Elise’s presence before he proposed.

The engagement banquet is really just a formality, a way to spread the word among nobles and commoners alike their king is getting married.

“I shouldn’t be up here,” Lilith mumbles next to him, twisting her braid around. “This is the royalty table, I shouldn’t—”

“You’re my sister, even if the world doesn’t know it.” Corrin interrupts, waving a hand. “For now, I’ve expanded the table for my closest friends, so the secret is safe. Considering the royalty consists of just me and Azura, it’d be very lonely up here otherwise.”

“And we should get to know each other more,” the songstress adds from his other side. “We will be sisters, after all. This will give us a chance to talk.”

Lilith throws glances around the room, where several Vallites are eyeing her with open suspicion, but relaxes with a small smile. “I suppose… The food does look scrumptious.”

“You always have your mind on the important things,” Corrin teases, rising for the welcome for the welcome speech. All eyes turn to him.

“Lords and ladies,” he begins, “I thank you for attending the celebration of my engagement to Princess Azura Rheos. It has been six months since the reconstruction of Valla, and while our country is persevering, it still struggles. We all face challenges in all shapes and forms. But for tonight, we shall all set those worries aside and eat, drink and make merry not to just the health of my betrothed and I, but to the health of all wedded couples, present or not!”

He sits, to applause that sounds genuinely enthusiastic; the servants move in unison, bringing out the main course. Lilith doesn’t waste a second before she starts digging in happily, though conversation with Azura briefly distracts Corrin.

“Catering to both cultures was a wise move, I think,” his betrothed says, examining the room. Rather than separate the styles and food, Corrin had told the servants to mix both in. Nohrian dishes, like roasted pig and rabbit stew, sit next to Hoshidan rice gratin and fish with berry glaze, on tables low to the ground with cushions as seats—Azura’s suggestion. He’d still kept most of the lords separate, only putting the even-headed Hoshidans and Nohrians next to each other, but he can see some of them eyeing the foreign dishes with curiosity; a few, like Silas’s parents, are tentatively trying them, and he takes it as a good sign.

“It’s a symbolism thing,” he nods, taking a moment to just gaze at her. Gods, he can’t believe how blessed he is, to have met her and to be with her now. She’s going to be his _wife_. He still feels like he’s flying, has ever since she accepted his proposal. “Instead of having Hoshidan and Nohrian dishes separate, by mingling them together it sends the message the cultures are unified.”

She smiles. “It’s a good tactic. Now that I think about it, isn’t that what you did in the army?”

“Right. It helped then, so I thought it’d help now.” He reaches to cut a bite of his fish.

Lilith’s arm knocks his aside, sending his plate and the food on it crashing to the ground. Corrin turns, a little annoyed. “Lilith, what the hell—”

Her eyes, wide and fearful, meet his. Her body shakes in some sort of seizure, her skin taking on an unhealthy gray tinge. Her hands grasp at her throat as she gags and chokes, a bit of blood and spittle running out the corner of her mouth.

It takes those nearby less than a second to realize what’s happening. “Poison!” Kaze yells, “The food’s poisoned!”

The dining hall bursts into chaos. Those who haven’t yet eaten immediately shove their plates away, while those who have start to scream in panic. Next to him, Azura’s face is pale as she instantly spits out the bite she’d just started to take. Felicia, the closest one with healing experience, rushes to Lilith’s side. She yanks her mouth open forcefully and sticks two fingers down her throat. “Throw it up!” she urges, “Throw it up!”

His sister gags again, then lurches forward—Felicia barely has time to withdraw her hand before the food comes up. Lilith coughs violently and falls to her hands and knees, hands trembling as she tries to hold herself up. Specks of blood are flecked in her sick.

“Get her medical attention immediately!” Corrin shouts over the noise. He wheels around to Kaze, Silas, and Jakob, who stare back at him, awaiting orders. “Kaze, find all the servants involved in cooking this food and detain them, now! Silas, focus on getting everyone to calm down! Jakob, send word that the gates to Elysium are to be shut! No one leaves this city until questioning is done and the assassin found!”

The three nod and dart off as Corrin’s mind whirls furiously. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone had poisoned his sister, would have poisoned his intended, and would have poisoned an entire room of nobles just to get at him.

His intended—he wheels, fear rising up in him. “Azura, are you alright?!”

“I’m fine,” she mumbles, face already reasserting itself into a mask, but still failing to hide how shaken she is, “I didn’t swallow anything.”

 _Thank you, gods_. Reassured that one person he loves is safe, he crouches down to Lilith’s side, grabbing her hand and clutching it tightly. He hopes—gods, he _hopes_ —the worst of the poison is out of her system, but her body is still twitching and shivering sporadically, and her pupils are blown wide open. “You’ll be fine!” he entreats, as if saying it will make it come true. “Lilith, you’ll be fine…”

A pair of heels click into his field of vision—Flora. “I’ve brought the healers.”

Reluctantly, Corrin steps back to let them crowd around Lilith. Her hand falls out of his; he barely feels Azura’s comforting touch on his shoulder as he stares until the bodies of the healers huddling around his sister block her from his sight.

* * *

A few days later, Corrin calls his closest friends, allies and trusted ones to the palace sick wing. All travel to and from the city has come to a halt, as his men search for the assassin. The streets, from what he hears, are abuzz with gossip, and the nobles he’d invited are equal parts disdainful and furious. Naturally, some of the Hoshidans and Nohrians are blaming each other. He hasn’t written to his siblings yet; he wants to get a better handle on the situation first.

He looks down at Lilith. Someone had removed her kerchief and placed it on the bedside table, revealing her pointed ears, identical to his. A necklace with a shiny blue rock— _is that a dragonstone?_ he thinks in surprise—lays next to it. Her skin has regained its normal pallor by now, though it’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and she shivers beneath the blankets. The sight makes fury well up in him, and he forcibly reins it in.

The healers are expecting her to make a full recovery, although she’d be ill and bedridden for several weeks. But it could have been so much worse. He thanks the gods every night it wasn’t, but still…

A delicate hand rests on his arm. He turns to see Azura’s golden eyes looking back into his. “She’s going to be fine, love.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “But I feel so powerless.”

She waits, patiently, and he continues, “She was poisoned, right there, right in front of me. _Protecting_ me. Again. I’m always being protected, always coming close to losing the people I love, or actually losing them…” The memory of his mother, blood running from her mouth as she gasped in his arms, flashes through his mind. He swallows the lump in his throat. “It could have been you, or she could have died…” _And it’d be all my fault._

“Don’t think like that.” She pulls him down into a hug, and he buries his face in her hair, inhaling her comforting scent. It calms him enough to remind him of something.

“I want you to take Felicia on as a retainer.”

He feels her start against his shoulder. “Corrin?”

“She’s already said she’d like to stay. I was expecting Jakob to have done the same by now, but he and Flora have been talking a lot lately…maybe she’s finally acted on her feelings, and it’s distracting him?” He sighs, his breath tickling her hair. “In any case, it’d still be up to her to accept or not, but I want you to at least approach her about it. It’d make me feel better, knowing you had people I trusted watching you, if she agrees.”

She pulls back enough to search his face, her eyes soft. “Very well,” she agrees. “I like Felicia anyway, and Mozu does too.”

The door opens, and he allows himself one more moment to relish Azura’s embrace before pulling away, donning the mask of a king once more. He turns to those entering—his retainers, hers, and Nestor—as they step in, his chest tight. “Give me the report.”

“The poison was in the glaze, my lord,” Kaze says. He holds out a hand, in it three small, purple berries. “Analysts have worked out that it was made from these.”

Corrin looks at the berries. They don’t look very dangerous. _Poison never does_. “Do we know what kind of poison it is, or where it came from?”

“I can answer yes to both questions.” This time it’s Silas speaking, stepping forward with a serious look on his face. “Although several other people ate the same food Lilith did, she’s the only one who got sick. Based off that, and from cross-referencing with books, we’ve deduced the berries are wyrmsbane.”

 _Wyrmsbane._ Just hearing the name makes a deep, instinctual part of him recoil. “I suppose I don’t need to ask what it does, with a name like that.”

“No, you don’t.” Jakob’s frown is deep as he recites, as if from a book, “The plant itself is mostly harmless, but the berries contain a fast-acting toxin that is painful to dragons and wyverns in small doses and fatal in large ones. Anyone else who eats them won’t get more than a stomachache. It grows only in arid lands, and is used in the creation of Wyrmslayers—mages burn the berries as offerings in a spell, which is then cast on the blade. The sword then retains the ability to poison dragons and wyverns at a scratch… as you well know.”

Well know he does. One hand goes to his shoulder, rubbing it in memory. He’d gotten glanced by a Wyrmslayer once—just a scratch, not even that deep, but it had stung so much worse. His blood had felt aflame, and the wound hadn’t stopped bleeding for hours. Now there’s a long, jagged scar there.

“So it was an attempt on Lilith?” he hears Nestor question, but no, that’s not necessarily true.

Lilith had knocked his food out of his hands, almost certainly saving his life. She’d tasted the wyrmsbane and suspected his food was laced with it too. It may have been an attempt on his sister…or it may have been an attempt on _him_.

But who could know?

“If it’s only poisonous to Lilith,” _and me_ , “that’d explain how it got past the taste-testers…” A poison that can’t be detected by any except those it’s meant for; a daunting thought. Corrin rubs his chin furtively.

“I want only those in this room cooking for Lilith, Azura and me from now on,” he finally orders. There just isn’t any other way to see if their food will be poisoned. Azura’s not half-dragon or wholly dragon like him, but she still has dragon’s blood—he isn’t taking any chances. Those gathered nod, faces serious, and Kaze steps forward to speak again.

“My spies have already caught the perpetrator—one of the servants—and interrogated him,” the ninja finishes, “We’ve learned the identity of the lord he was affiliated with.”

The dragon in him growls, pleased and ready for blood. “Tell me.”

* * *

Jiro rushes around as quickly as he can, gathering up anything incriminating and tossing it into the small fire burning in his hearth. He’d only gotten a few days’ notice that the king and his soldiers were coming to investigate him, barely enough time to start covering his tracks. His servants and family are too busy preparing the house for welcome to wonder why he’s been in a panic.

He’s fortunate he’d decided against attending the banquet. If he’d been detained on the spot, the evidence in his home would be left open for finding, and then everything would be over.

Laurel watches, calmly, from her spot by the window. “Your blunder certainly made a right mess of things.”

“ _My_ blunder? The servant’s the one who miscounted the dosage. It would have barely been enough for a half-dragon, much less a full one.” From what he’s heard, the dragon girl is bedridden but alive, so they didn’t even manage to remove the one they _did_ poison.

“Not that. I mean the fact the poison didn’t even reach Corrin at all.”

“How was I supposed to know his sister would be sitting right next to him?” Jiro asks irritably. “The royal table is supposed to be _only for acclaimed royalty._ If she hadn’t, no one else would have detected the wyrmsbane and he’d be dead right now.”

“Well she was, and your servant talked, and now he’s alive, angry, and coming for you. I hope you have a story ready.”

He nods, reciting, “The servant’s family was in Shirasagi the day our good queen Mikoto died—they were killed in the explosion. I was unaware that he was nursing a revenge plot against the king for that, and I will offer my sincerest apologies for accepting his request to be transferred to Castle Avalon.”

Laurel nods, satisfied. “It’ll save your neck, but it won’t save you from suspicion. If he’s smart, he’ll have a spy hang around to watch you. You’ll have to lay low a while.”

“I don’t think he’s very smart,” Jiro grumbles, feeding another paper into the fire. “By all accounts, he’s stupidly trusting and naïve.”

The paper curls and blackens, and he exhales in relief. That’s the last one. He douses the fire with water and sweeps up the ashes, going to toss them out the window.

“Smart and naïve are not mutually exclusive,” Laurel warns. “If they are watching, I won’t be able to contact you for some time. I’ll continue to gather allies where I can, but your part is done for now.”

“So—what? One attempt, that’s it, then it’s over—”

“No.” A bit of irritation flashes in her eyes. “Just bide your time until he stops watching you. We won’t be able to poison his food again after this. I’ll still try to find ways to assassinate him, but I don’t have much gold and your expenses are going to be monitored from now on. The methods I do find likely won’t be as effective as wyrmsbane would have been.”

He glances about instinctively before speaking, even though he knows none of his servants or family are in earshot. “Rebellion, then?”

She shakes her head. “Eventually. It’ll take me time to gather enough forces to attempt that, though it’ll be a bit easier with the links I have from you. Until then, I’ll focus on doing what I can—and _you_ lay low and don’t give them any more reason to suspect you.”

“Of course not,” he grumbles to air, as Laurel exits out the back door without waiting for his reply. Peering out his window, he can see her step into one of the puddles from last night’s rain. It shimmers brightly, and when the light clears, she’s gone.

Half an hour later, his wife arrives and informs him the king and his men are awaiting him in the main hall, fingers tapping against his kimono nervously. He inhales, then, putting a bright, welcoming smile on his face, Jiro goes to greet his guests.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, bowing. “It honors me as always to welcome you here.”

“Lord Jiro,” King Corrin returns, his voice overly polite. “I thank you for hosting us on such short notice.”

“Of course, of course. How is your servant? Recovering well, I hope?”

It floods him with perverse satisfaction to watch the king’s jaw clench and his fists tighten. “She’s doing fine,” he says, voice going flat. “I’ll tell her you send your well-wishes.”

The Nohrian paladin places one hand on his shoulder, muttering something in his ear. Jiro watches, barely able to mask his distaste. Really, do Nohrians not even understand the basic concept of common courtesy?

The king closes his eyes and exhales. When he opens them, they’re back to being unreadable. “Lord Jiro, this is no simple social call, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. We traced the assassin to a man who originated from your service. You will now be detained and your estate searched.”

“Go right ahead.” He bows again. “You’ll find nothing more than the belongings of one of your humble servants.”

As the ninjas scatter, Jiro ambles to one of his cabinets and fetches a bottle of sake and a shogi board. Hospitality has rules, after all. “Would you care for a game of shogi and a drink, as your men search?”

“You’ll understand if I decline the drink. But I will play,” King Corrin says, taking a seat. “I’m not very well-versed in shogi, I should warn you.”

They play as they wait, Jiro making sure to feed him his prepared story and trying to hide how he surreptitiously eyes the albino. Like all daimyos, Jiro is sufficiently trained in martial combat; if it weren’t for the fact a murder here would be too politically messy to clean up, and for the golden sword the king is keeping in arms reach, he could take the Nohrian by surprise here and now.

After a period of time that is both too short and too long, the ninjas return. “Nothing incriminating for Lord Jiro, my lord,” the green-haired one murmurs, kneeling and presenting the papers Jiro had planted. “We did find several plans in the servants’ quarters, however, as well as a letter about purchasing the poison.”

King Corrin examines the evidence as Jiro spreads his hands. “You see? It truly was just a plot of one of my servants. A play at vengeance. Again, I apologize most deeply for my lack of oversight.”

The king nods, snapping his final tile down before rising—he’d been losing the game. Jiro would like to believe it’s a sign from the gods about his own ambitions. “It seems so. I apologize for the inconvenience, Lord Jiro, and thank you again for the hospitality. If you wouldn’t mind, there’s one more request I’d like to ask.”

Kings don’t make requests. “I would be honored to help you however I can.”

King Corrin smiles then. It reminds Jiro eerily of the smiles he sometimes witnessed Queen Mikoto give a person right before she verbally flayed them alive. “Excellent. I hope you wouldn’t mind hosting one of my men for several months as a guest, then?” He waves forward one of the ninja, a black-haired man with a short ponytail. “This is Haru, the son of a minor lord. He’s heard much about your lands, and has been curious to sample their bounties himself.”

Jiro grits his teeth, but hides it by bowing again. “Of course, Your Majesty.” It seems he underestimated the king after all. Give Jiro a minor noble guest, one he can’t eliminate without earning the ire of his family or the suspicions of the royal family. One trained in the ways of stealth, secrecy and sabotage, who would likely spot any hints of insubordination or rebelliousness. It’s truly irritating.

But even so, he still feels a bit smug. While King Corrin is turning out to be a better political player than expected, he’s still a novice. What he’d done was wise, but wiser still would have been to insist on having Jiro’s wife or sons stay at Castle Avalon as guests—or rather, insurance. Not doing so was a sign of either soft-heartedness or naiveté.

He sees them off, smiling until it hurts his mouth, then orders a servant to show his _guest_ to his new room. Only then does Jiro allow himself to drop his expression. Bitterly he pours another cup of sake, and as he downs it he hopes that Laurel moves swiftly. There’s only so long he can stomach the rule of a Nohrian and the eyes of a spy.

* * *

_Thwack_. Sweat drips off Corrin’s brow and into his eyes; he blinks it away, bringing his sword to bear on the target before him again.

 _Thwack._ His arm burns; he’s lost track of how long he’s been out here, mindlessly exercising his sword arm. Not long enough, if he can still feel stress and agitation nipping at his heels.

 _Cr-ASH!_ His next blow decapitates the training dummy completely, sending the wooden head flying into the nearby weapon rack. The swords, spears and axes scatter; with a frustrated growl Corrin throws his weapon to the ground and stalks over to pick them up.

“Feel better?”

He turns to see Silas approaching; he must have been watching him for a while without his noticing. His friend bends to help him, gathering a few weapons in his arms. “Not particularly, no.”

He’s just been so _angry_ , so angry and frustrated the past few days. Lilith’s poisoning, the veiled taunting from Lord Jiro, his own failure to protect his sister—it had built up and up until he couldn’t take it anymore, storming over to the training grounds. He’d just wanted to destroy something, and it had shown; the recruits there had taken one glance at the black look on his face and immediately cleared out.

The sole good thing to come of it is that the Vallites have slowly started to come around to Lilith. They’d all heard about how, upon being poisoned, her immediate thought was to protect the king, and while they thought the wyrmsbane wouldn’t have harmed him, her intentions were still worth something. When he’d last visited her, her eyes had light up upon learning this, and she was slowly starting to display the bright personality she’d had in the Fortress again.

He rubs his dragonstone, feeling it burn beneath his palm, almost in response to his heated emotions. A motion in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he looks up to see Silas taking a battle stance across from him, a lance in hand. The paladin arches an eyebrow. “Spar?”

Corrin smiles draconically, dropping his dragonstone back beneath his tunic. “First to three wins.” Then he takes up his sword again and charges.

It’s a challenge, the exact one he needs. While Corrin is the better swordsman and Silas is accustomed to fighting on horseback, his lance gives him more reach, and he parries all Corrin’s efforts to get inside his range. The king has also worn himself out on the dummies, so it comes as little surprise when his retainer scores the first hit, a hard tap to his thigh.

“First blood is mine,” Silas teases, giving a mock salute with his lance. He is rewarded with a blow on his arm. “Ow!”

“Don’t lower your guard,” Corrin shoots back, smirking, and they begin again.

He wins, but it’s a close thing.

“Thanks,” he huffs when they finish, ten minutes later; Silas tosses him a towel, and he wipes his forehead with it, sitting on a spare bench. “I…think I really needed that.” Even as he says the words he feels his agitation melt away, the dragon side of him satisfied by the good spar.

The paladin smiles, putting his lance aside. He joins him on the bench, resting his forearms on his knees. “Anytime, Corrin. So what’s eating you? Does your mood have anything to do with what happened with Lord Jiro, or…?”

He sighs. “Not exactly. Haru’s reported nothing suspicious, so far. I _want_ to believe nothing’s amiss, but…”

“But you aren’t certain.”

“I just don’t want to believe trouble could come back so soon,” he murmurs. “We won; shouldn’t that be the end of it?”

Silas shrugs in a way too forced to be truly casual. “Unfortunately, it rarely is. All we can really do is wait and hope Haru finds something incriminating—or if he doesn’t, hope that it really was just an attempt from a lone servant.”

The mood turns gloomy, and the two men sit in silence, each dwelling on his thoughts.

Then Corrin tosses the towel aside with a huff, forcefully dispelling the dark mood. “C’mon. Let’s get Nestor to patch us up—knowing him, he’ll probably make a fuss about the king sparring without healers on standby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next chapter: the moment you’ve all been waiting for.
> 
> It wasn’t until I was writing that first scene that I realized how similar Flora and Lilith are here. Blue-haired sisters who seek to atone for past wrongdoings and have low opinions of themselves. I should have them talk sometime.
> 
> That last scene, while a bit short, is actually one I’ve had in my head for a while, one of the first scenes I had planned (along with Lilith’s poisoning). Partially because I wanted Corrin to show a more…human side, an angrier side, partially because I wanted more friendship scenes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is probably one of the longest chapters so far! And get ready everyone, ‘cause it’s ships and sap galore! With a bit of plot drama, ofc. But fluff everywhere.

 

The next five months pass as if in a blur for Azura, wedding preparations spinning together and blending in her head until suddenly, it’s a week before and guests are starting to arrive in the castle.

It hasn’t been all that, of course. She’s noticed a few more _accidents_ around Corrin—a broken balcony (he survived by shifting out his wings; fortunately for his reputation no one was around), a snake in the garden (it bit him, but the healers managed to get the poison out of his system quickly), an attack on the road to Xander’s wedding (they beat off the bandits with ease). It terrifies her, that someone wants him dead and they don’t know who, or where, or when they could strike. At least Anankos was something they could actually fight. Here, they have to wait for their spies to bring back intel.

So between that and wedding nerves, she feels like a wreck when the Hoshidan royal family arrives.

“There’s something I’d like to ask you in private,” she blurts out in the middle of greeting Ryoma and her other siblings. Azura winces as soon as it leaves her mouth, because that’s terribly forthright, even for her. “Sorry. I am happy to see all of you, I’ve just…”

“It’s fine,” Takumi says, waving a hand. “We can tell when we aren't wanted.” His tone is joking, though, and she exhales in relief. Smiling, Ryoma tilts his head up and follows Azura outside.

They walk atop the battlements. Castle Avalon is nested on top of a hill, so it affords a generous view of Elysium spread out below. To the east and west are the roads to Hoshido and Nohr; to the north, nothing but plains, but beyond them are the jagged peaks of the Bottomless Canyon in the distance. In the southern half of Elysium are the harbor and the ocean, the gulls circling overhead. The breeze carries the salty tang of the sea, and she stops to inhale it, loving the scent.

“I’d say you’re doing quite well for yourselves,” Ryoma says, stopping to admire the scenery as well. “You and Corrin have brought this country back in just under a year.”

“Only with help from you and Xander,” she points out. “You didn’t have to offer your own resources, but you did. Without you, it wouldn’t have been possible. So thank you, again.”

“I couldn’t well abandon my siblings, now could I?” Ryoma ruffles her hair like they’re kids again, and she playfully rolls her eyes, enduring it with dignified poise. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Alright. Well, Valla’s wedding ceremony is a lot different from Hoshido’s. But there’s one part that’s the same. And there’s the part where...um, where the bride’s closest male relative walks her down the aisle and gives her away to the groom. So…Ryoma, would you be willing to do that?”

He goes very still, and for a moment she fears he’s going to say no. The Hoshidan king turns away, rubbing an eye.

Azura frowns, trying to get a better look at her brother, but he keeps _turning,_ not letting her get anything more than a periphery glance at his face. “Ryoma? Are you…crying?”

“No,” he immediately denies, but his voice is suspiciously thick.

A smile twitches at her lips, and she has to bite back a giggle. Azura waits for him to compose himself, and after rubbing an arm across his eyes he turns back to her, smiling broadly. “I…Azura, I’d be honored. Thank you, sister.”

He pauses, then adds, “Although I think it would have been more appropriate to give me more than a week’s advance notice. I don’t think we’ll have enough time to practice all the proper movements and procedures.”

“Well, rehearsals weren’t due to begin until this week anyway, so there wasn’t much point. It’s the same thing as in Hoshido, really. Besides, I couldn’t bear to miss the sight of you tearing up.”

“I was not crying,” he insists as they start to walk back. “I merely got some dust in my eye.”

“Whatever you say, brother.”

* * *

This is how the day of the wedding starts:

Azura is woken unceremoniously early by Felicia yanking her covers off, cheerfully sing-songing that it’s her wedding day and they need to get ready. She is ushered, still bleary-eyed and yawning, into the royal bathhouse for the traditional Vallite wedding bath, a rite performed on the day of the wedding to purify the bride and groom.

“Why am I up so early?” Azura mumbles as Felicia and Mozu push her into the room.

“Because your hair is massively long, Lady Azura, so we’ll need an extra hour to wash, clean and dry it!” is the maid’s chirpy reply, holding out a towel for the princess’s modesty as she mechanically changes out of her nightgown. Azura wraps herself in it and stumbles to the water’s edge.

“The sun isn’t even up— _gods that’s cold_ ,” she yelps, yanking her foot back out. It feels like stepping into a bucket of ice. She likes the cold, but not even she likes her water _that cold_.

“It’s to keep you from falling back asleep,” Mozu says helpfully. “Now please get in, milady, time is of the essence.”

Azura grumbles, but does so, not even bothering to hide her grimace. She sits there shivering as her two friends bustle around, washing her hair and lathering it with scented shampoos. But not even she can maintain a grumpy demeanor in the face of Felicia’s chatter, and is soon drawn into slow, still somewhat sleepy conversation.

Two hours later, in his room on the other end of the castle, Corrin’s retainers go to wake him for his bath. Being a heavy sleeper, the king needs a bucket of cold water dumped over his head before he gets up. Following a pre-planned route, he’s stumblingly escorted to the bath as Azura and her retainers leave it, the pair maneuvered so that they don’t meet before the ceremony, as is proper.

He is half-asleep up until he steps into the bath.

“ _Why is the water so cold_?” he yells, almost jumping out of it.

“Because we feed off your misery,” is Silas’s cheeky answer. Corrin rubs his hands along his arms and glares. “Just…toss me the soap.”

“Oh no, milord, we need to wash you personally,” Kaze says with a completely straight face, and Corrin honestly can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or just screwing with him. The ninja can be a bit mischievous, but usually not with his higher ups.

Jakob, bless him, takes pity on him. “Only your hair, Lord Corrin.”

“Good,” he mumbles, taking the soap from the butler’s hand and glowering as the other two chuckle. “Having Camilla try to wash me during the war was embarrassing enough.”

Meanwhile, back in her chambers, Azura sits at her dresser, a bit more alert, as Mozu struggles with brushing out the knots in her hair. Through her window, she can just barely get a glimpse of the courtyard below, where servants are running about to make preparations, Flora overseeing everything. The ceremony doesn’t start until noon; guests won’t take seats until an hour or two beforehand, but the entire castle feels as though there’s not enough time.

“Your sisters are up!” Felicia tells her, bouncing back inside with the extra pins she’d gone out to fetch. A very relieved Mozu takes them and immediately starts applying them to Azura’s hair, pinning up brushed sections to get at the rest. “They told me to tell you they’ll be along to see you once they finish getting ready.”

“How long will that take?” the songstress asks, wincing at a particularly sharp yank on her hair.

“A few hours?” Felicia guesses, tapping her lip. “There’s four of them, but the maids are rotating—two on hair, two on makeup.”

Lilith steps inside the room, a bundle of ocean blue fabric in her arms. “Lady Azura? Is your hair ready yet?” Her eyes widen when they see what lies before them. “You haven’t even started putting her hair up?!”

“Not yet, sorry,” Mozu calls, frowning deeply as she tugs painfully at a particularly stubborn knot. Small beads of water prick at the corner of Azura’s eyes. “No offense, Lady Azura, but I think we underestimated the kind of beast your hair is.”

“ _I_ sometimes underestimate it,” she admits with a half-smile, half-wince. “Will you and Felicia have time to prepare yourselves?”

“Oh, we’ll be fine!” Felicia assures her, joining Mozu with a comb in hand, bravely ready to leap into the battle taking place. “We can get ourselves ready while you pray.”

“I’ve put the dress down over there,” Lilith calls, and in her mirror Azura watches her head to the door, her braid swaying. Her soon-to-be sister-in-law has certainly bounced back from her poisoning; looking at her now, you’d never even know she’d been bedridden. “I’m going to get ready, then head back down to help Flora. See you at the ceremony!”

“Your brothers are up,” Kaze informs Corrin as they return him to his room, still shivering from the cold. He shakes his wet hair out of his eyes and blinks at the ninja. “Thank you, Kaze. You and Silas should probably go get ready.”

The two nod, bow and depart, leaving Jakob the only one to help him get ready. The butler brings over the wedding clothes, and Corrin automatically holds his arms away from his side to let Jakob start dressing him. His eyes drift to his floor-length mirror, where he can study his reflection—pale-skinned and pale-haired, save for the bright blue gleam of his dragonstone against his chest.

“Are you going to take that off?” Jakob asks, nodding at the necklace.

Corrin frowns. “No, I… don’t know how safe it is. Just try to hide it beneath my tunic as best you can.” A bit of resentment at still having to hide secrets, even if only from the populace and not his closest friends and love, gnaws at him, and he turns away, smoothing his face over.

“Very well, Lord Corrin.”

Another two hours later, Azura lifts her eyes to the statue of the Dawn Dragon. She has never been particularly religious; she says the necessary prayers and offers the necessary thanks, but with no particular fervor. Perhaps knowing deicide was necessary to survive made her a bit less reverent than normal, and she quietly asks the dragon to forgive her, promising better service in the future.

At the same time, Corrin bows his head before the statue of the Dusk Dragon. He always found prayer comforting, just the knowledge there was something up there watching over him and protecting him. He hasn’t done much of it lately, too conflicted over _killing_ a god last year to pray to them, but it’s reassuring to do so again.

It doesn’t take long before his prayer derails into almost panicked rambling.

_…help me be a good ruler…and a good husband…and let the ceremony go smoothly… oh please, please, please let the ceremony go smoothly, don’t let me forget my lines or trip over myself or lose the ring or…_

After the required hour of prayer, Azura rises from her kneeling position. Felicia holds out the final article of clothing, a veil, and she complies, tying it on and hiding the lower half of her face. Then they exit the chapel.

Her sisters are waiting outside, and Elise squeals and claps her hands when she sees her. “You look so beautiful, sis! Corrin’s jaw is going to just drop!”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, grateful the fabric of the veil hides her blush. Elise is wearing a pale pink dress with black lace in the shape of roses, her long blonde hair tied into a high ponytail, the purple strands adding a bit of color and making it pop. “You look lovely yourself. All of you.”

“Don’t be modest, dear,” Camilla chuckles. She looks stunning in her dress of pale periwinkle, her hair gathered on top of her head in a fancy updo. Only her bangs are familiar, still sweeping over the left side of her face. “It’s your wedding day—it’s all about you! So bathe in all the praise!”

“She’s never been the type for that,” Hinoka says with a grin. She and Sakura are clad in matching red, white and gold kimonos; Hinoka’s is embroidered with patterns of cranes, and Sakura’s—of course—with cherry blossoms. “Mother hated how she always wanted to spend her birthdays alone. She wanted to spoil us all rotten.”

The mention of the departed queen brings a lump to Azura’s throat. Mikoto really had been so good to her. She wishes she could be here. She wishes her mother could be here too. She hopes they’re happy, wherever they are, and that maybe they’re watching her and Corrin and smiling.

“C-Come on,” Sakura says, extending her hand with a smile, “Ryoma’s waiting, and after him Corrin.”

On the other end of the castle, Jakob taps Corrin softly on the shoulder to inform him the time has come. The half-dragon exhales and slowly rises from his kneeled position, taking from the butler the heavy, ornate crown he’d worn at his coronation. He puts it on and sways under the weight, briefly off-balance before quickly recovering. Thankfully he won’t have to wear it the _whole_ time, just during the vows, after which he can replace it with the usual lighter circlet.

He emerges. His brothers sans Ryoma are waiting for him, looking sharp. Xander and Leo are both clad in black-and-gold doublets, and each has a purple cape with the royal insignia of Nohr hanging off one shoulder. Takumi stands with his arms crossed in a blue and white kimono, the royal insignia of Hoshido patterned in a darker blue across the obi. He knows Ryoma will be in a similar outfit, only in red and white.

“The guests have all arrived,” Leo informs him. “It’s time for the ceremony to begin.”

“Are you ready?” Xander asks, ever the concerned elder brother. “It’s okay to be nervous. Gods know I was.”

Right. Corrin had never seen Xander look so anxious as he had at his own wedding, the crinkle between his eyes deeper than ever and his hands tapping a frantic rhythm against his thigh. The memory makes him chuckle, releasing some of the tension building in his chest. He inhales and resists the urge to wipe his sweaty palms against his pants. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

* * *

If it weren’t for Ryoma’s arm in her hand and the promise of Corrin at the end, Azura is quite certain she would be running away as thousands of eyes automatically turn to her. The sea of expectant gazes reminds her too much of Nohr’s court, the scornful way they looked upon her, and she has to stop and breathe.

But then she straightens her shoulders, lifts her head, and takes the first step down the aisle. She is Princess Azura Rheos of Valla, Hoshido and Nohr, to be Queen of Valla. She has fought a war and sung using her own life force and helped kill a god. She can handle her social anxiety.

“You’re doing good,” Ryoma breathes in her ear, knowing this particular fear of hers. The wedding is indoors, but the aisle is not. It’s long, beginning at the castle gates, weaving through the grounds, and leading to the entrance itself; it takes them almost ten minutes to traverse it, moving at a slow pace to allow everyone to see her.

The castle’s doors set the backdrop for where the ceremony will occur; when the ceremony is over, they will open and everyone will feast in the grand hall. The priest is waiting outside, the Hoshidan royals lined to his left, the Nohrians to his right, and directly in front of him is Corrin. He looks so regal, so dashing, in black and gray and gold, a white cape around his shoulders and touching the ground. It makes her heart skip a beat, and she almost trips over her feet. Her face burns; surely everyone saw that. She has never been more grateful for the veil. _I must appear like such a fool._

 _I must be gaping like an idiot,_ Corrin thinks as he watches Azura gracefully make her way toward him. But what man wouldn’t? She’s a vision in shades of blue, the fabric tight around her chest and then draping down like waves around her feet. A cape in the same color trails from the back of the dress. Her hair is twined in some amazing-looking braid around her head, showing off her neck and her mother’s pendant around it. The veil covering the lower half of her face only emphasizes her beauty.

His stomach is a knot of nerves and anticipation. It makes his dragonstone burn against his skin, beneath his clothes. Ryoma finally leads the songstress up to him and breaks protocol to give her one last hug. He whispers something in her ear, then steps away and takes his place with the other Hoshidan royals. Azura places one slender hand in Corrin’s.

“Hi,” he breathes.

He can’t see beneath her veil, but the crinkling around her eyes tells him she’s smiling. “Hi.”

The priest begins to recite the words, but Corrin barely pays them any mind, his eyes unable to break from Azura’s, minutes blending together until she subtly squeezes his hand, informing him it’s time to speak. The vow tumbles from his lips easily. “I, Corrin of Houses Minamoto and Aurelius, take you, Azura Rheos, to be my wife. I take you as you are, accepting and loving every part of you. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

She follows it. “I, Azura Rheos, take you, Corrin of Houses Minamoto and Aurelius, to be my husband. I take you as you are, accepting and loving every part of you. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

Then he reaches and unties the veil from her face. His hands are shaking so much he’s amazed he’s able to slide the ring, gold with a diamond flanked by sapphires, onto her finger with accuracy. But it’s done, and the people applaud, and the priest is speaking again, and he barely has the patience to wait for the proclamation before he swoops in and kisses her.

* * *

The reception has been going on for two hours now, and will likely be keeping up steam for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. In Nohr and Valla, royal weddings are huge, and royal parties are huge. Alcoholic beverages are passed out almost immediately. There’s a tremendous banquet: roast pigs stuffed with sage and onion; grilled octopus lathered in butter; cheese wheels the size of a buckler; steamed rice and vegetables; sushi made of only the finest quality fish; dozens and dozens of rolls of bread; honey-mustard eggs; and a wide variety of fruits. The wedding cake is surrounded by other desserts, tarts and cookies and puddings and mochi. Portions are carted outside the castle, where the commoners are sitting and having their own lesser celebration.

Lilith insists on eating everything off Corrin and Azura’s plates before they do. There was just too much food to make for only his trusted servants to be in charge of the cooking. At first they’d fought when she’d brought the idea up; he very much did not want her getting poisoned again, and been quite adamant about it. She’d countered by asking if he wanted to be responsible for traumatizing Azura by dropping dead on their wedding day.

That had ended the argument pretty much on the spot, though he still shoots the food she eats glares, as if each bite personally offends him.

Elise and Sakura work in unison, creating beautiful music of all cultures with their violin and koto. It’s a stringed symphony of beauty, and even the most arduous of Nohrian- or Hoshidan-haters would have to admit it. The wedded couple gets the first dance, seeming to float across the floor, so caught up in each other they may as well be the only ones in the world. And then the rest of the guests join them.

Felicia can’t hide the way she beams as Kaze makes his way to her, ignoring the sultry glances shot his way by several nearby noblewomen. She’s not a fool—she knows she’s cute at best, nowhere near as beautiful as the women who lavish attention on him, and clumsiness quickly stops being endearing. But he has eyes only for her, and it just lights this happy little sun in her chest.

“A-Are you sure?” she double-checks, _just in case_ , as he takes her hands in his and gets in position to dance. “I have two left feet…”

“I’m told I have two right feet,” he counters with his soft smile, “so I suppose we can balance each other out.”

He’s lying, of course. Like all ninja, he’s quick and graceful, leading her through the dance with ease. But it makes Felicia feel better nonetheless. As for him—if she does step on his toes a bit too often, well, the sight of her smiling so brightly, flecks of snow hovering in the air around her, is such a lovely sight that he doesn’t mind.

Silas can’t help but notice that while Mozu is a good dancer, she seems too stiff. Her brow is furrowed, and she appears to be concentrating so much on the proper footwork she’s not actually enjoying what’s going on.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sorry,” she sighs. “I’ve spent the past month of so trying to learn how to dance like a noble from your ma, and I can barely remember it all. I’m much more at ease doing my hometown dances.”

“Well, we could do those instead,” he says with a chuckle. He hates seeing her look so down on herself, and he wants her to have fun. He wants her to feel as beautiful as she is to him.

She only looks skeptical at his words. “I don’t think they’re appropriate…too informal, your ma would say.”

“It’s a wedding, isn’t it? A happy place? What could be more appropriate?”

So Mozu laughs and takes his hands, and guides him through the steps of a rambunctious country dance that has several nobles glancing their way and clucking their tongues. Lady Chalon rolls her eyes, but with the exasperated fondness of a mother too used to her son’s behavior.

Elise loves how much taller Ryoma is than her. It puts her head right against his chest, where she can hear the reassuring sound of his heartbeat. And he’s always really warm, as if a bit of Raijinto burns inside him. Sometimes she’s at risk of falling asleep if they cuddle or embrace for too long.

She looks up at him as they dance, smiling, which disappears when she sees the pensive look on his face. “What is it?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, still gazing about the party. “Do you think our wedding will be as joyous as this?” he finally asks after a pause.

Elise frowns, knowing what he means. The Hoshidans hadn’t exactly been happy when Ryoma announced his intentions to marry her, a _Nohrian_. They’d been so unhappy that Saizo reported hearing rumors of demonstrations, uprisings and the like. Just rumors, but the mere existence of such things is distressing enough.

“I’m sure it will,” she reassures him. “They just need some more time to get used to the idea.”

She does not add that she herself wonders _how much_ time the Hoshidans need, and whether they can afford it.

Ryoma nods, seemingly willing to just believe in that for now, and drops his chin onto the top of her head. When the song ends, she reluctantly separates from him and returns to the orchestra. Sakura gives her a small smile as she leaves—before the wedding they had made an agreement that they would swap every five songs or so, so they could each get time dancing. Elise settles in her seat, picks up her violin, and begins the next song.

The pink-haired princess has barely set her foot on the dance floor before Leo appears before her, bowing low and extending a hand. “You look lovely as always, Princess Sakura. Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

She’s quite certain her face turns as red as Hinoka’s hair—Leo is so…so _courteous_ and _romantic_ without being pompous, and it leaves her marveling at how lucky she is to have him—but a smile splits her face as she places her hand in his. “I w-would like nothing less.”

He rises, his brown eyes twinkling and that small, reserved smile she’s one of the few permitted to see tugging at his lips. “Excellent. I took the liberty of studying several Hoshidan wedding dances beforehand. I’m still a novice, so you’ll have to help me...”

Sakura laughs, and then she’s swept away, and stops thinking to enjoy the sensation of Leo’s arms around her and the fun in dancing with him.

Normally Flora would be sitting by herself alone at a table, envy gnawing on her heart and a cup of cold wine in hand as she watches everyone else have fun. But now, she’s spinning on the floor, leaving trails of snowflakes in her wake, with the man she’s been in love with for _so long_.

She still feels as if she’s dreaming sometimes. She’d been so nervous when she’d gone to confess to Jakob, the temperature around her had dropped twenty degrees. But as soon as the words were out, she felt lighter. Reject or accept, that weight was off her chest; she didn’t have to carry it alone anymore. And gods, when Jakob had accepted her feelings… She’d summoned up a euphoria-fueled blizzard on the spot.

“I’ve been thinking.” His voice pulls her out of her thoughts, and she blinks, looking up at him. “About the future.”

Part of her wants to scream and squeal and _is this a proposal_? The rest of her slaps that part and tells it to shut up, they’ve only been courting a few months. “What are your thoughts?”

His steely gray eyes soften. “I’ve been thinking about my future in Lord Corrin’s service. I won’t lie—he will always be important to me, and I will always be loyal to him. But you’ve become important to me too. And it wouldn’t be fair to keep you here when you want to go home.”

Her heart is beating so loudly in her chest, she’s amazed those nearby can’t hear it. “Jakob, what is this? I thought…” She trails off.

“Lord Corrin implied, in his tactful way,” which meant he’d outright told him, “that perhaps I should consider other options than staying in his service. At first I was ready to protest, but he pointed out that you could probably use a vacation, couldn’t you? And perhaps…I could come with you. Just to see what your home is like.”

Flora wishes very much then that moments could be captured and hung on the wall, to be looked at and preserved perfectly forever. But they can’t, so instead she nods speechlessly and commits herself to memorizing the floaty feeling in her stomach and the swell of the music and Jakob’s hand burning against her hip.

Gunter makes sure to keep his head down to hide his face as he makes his way through the crowd. He can’t face Corrin here, yet, either. He’s not ready. But he still couldn’t miss this occasion. No one would let a hooded man into a royal wedding, so he’d had no choice but to go without. But he can at least make sure he’s not noticed, and in a crowd this thick it’s not too hard. The table for receiving gifts is outside only so both nobles and commoners can present offerings, and under heavy guard. Thieves would not be treated kindly.

Hunching his shoulders and adding a hobble to his step, he presents the package in his hands, humble. The guard takes it, waving a hand and muttering a quick spell to check for any form of dark magic on it. It passes muster, and he returns it to Gunter, gesturing for him to go ahead.

He bows his head in thanks. Quietly, he leaves his wedding gift among the rest and turns away. As he does he catches sight of the dance within the castle.

Gunter pauses, watching Corrin spin Azura in his arms, looking happier than he’s ever seen him. The sight reminds him of his own wedding—not as grand as this, but no the less happy—and he smiles, bittersweet.

_Trouble is brewing, son. Gods be willing, maybe I can have a hand in stopping it and making up what I did to you._

And then he takes his leave, unnoticed.

* * *

Two more hours pass. Amidst the partying, Laurel weaves throughout the crowd with purpose, slipping past the watchful guards’ eyes in a dress just bright enough to pass for nobility. As a commoner she shouldn’t be allowed at the wedding at all, or at least not in the areas for the upper class. The spectacles help, she imagines—not a lot of commoners can afford glass.

She doesn’t have anything against the king personally, she truly doesn’t. But she has had too many bad experiences with dragons to let one live, much less rule. She was just a young teenager when Valla fell, but she can still recall the terror of watching the land rend itself apart, of seeing the dead walk and Anankos’s massive form blot out the sun. She can still recall the grueling twenty years of living under a mad tyrant, the hate and fear and resentment that threatened to swallow her every time she bowed her head. She'd served him only to preserve her own life, not out of any loyalty, and been among those who rejoiced at his death.

Laurel shakes the memories out of her head and returns to what she’s here for. As she finishes planting her rumors in the ear of a skeptical-looking Nohrian lady— _“Rumor has it the king’s father was a dragon. A dragon! Can you imagine such a terrifying beast leading us? A frightful image, is it not?”_ —her eye is caught by a familiar obese form in a spectacular white-and-red kimono. Excusing herself, she makes her way to him. “How fare you, Lord Jiro? I wasn’t expecting to see you here, to be honest.”

“The king invited me,” Lord Jiro sniffs, swallowing another round of sake, “as a token attempt to smooth things over, seeing as his spy hasn’t dug anything up.”

Her green eyes scan the area for the ninja. “Where is your shadow, by the way?”

“He slipped off for a minute, probably to report to a superior. I expect he’ll be back soon.” Lord Jiro glares at her with beady eyes. “Perhaps in that time you can explain your…lack of success?”

She has attempted several more assassinations, none of which have been successful. Part of it can be blamed on the lower quality of her methods—without Lord Jiro’s finances, she couldn’t afford the best—and part of it can just be blamed to sheer bad luck. A wedding like this offered another opportunity, but she was loathe to take it. It would be cruel to kill him on his wedding day. Not to mention the presence of the Hoshidan and Nohrian royal families complicated things—if the attempt went wrong, they could very well choose to get involved, and that was the last thing she needed.

“Lack of sufficient quality, which I might remind you happened because you had to cut me off your funds after your guest’s visit. So I’ve decided to try a different tactic. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve had several interesting conversations with some of your fellows already. They’d be willing to invest in our project.”

“Really? That’s good to hear. Who are these potential investors?”

She breathes the names in his ears. His eyes widen, then narrow, and he scowls. “Nohrians.”

“Don’t be so fast to dismiss them just yet. The king has allies on both sides; so must we.” She’s certain he can see the irony in having to side with Nohrians to rid the country of Nohrians. At the very least she appreciates it.

Before he can respond, their chat is interrupted by a Nohrian duke stepping up, giving Jiro a barely-courteous nod. “My lady.” He bows to her and extends a hand. “Would you care to dance with me?”

Laurel smiles sweetly and puts her hand in his, curtsying deeply. She’s spent enough time observing and calculating to imitate something close to a noble’s mannerisms. “Of course.”

Lord Jiro doesn’t say farewell as she follows the duke onto floor. As they start to dance, he remarks, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. What house do you come from, if I might inquire?”

“I’m just a distant cousin of the Leyens.” The Leyens had been involved in some assassination scandal with King Garon some twenty years back, and never quite recovered their reputation; many of them no longer showed their faces in public now, so there were very few who could see through the lie.

The duke, recognizing the dangerous territory he’s stepping into, tactfully changes the subject. “Ah. Well. This is a lovely wedding.”

“It is.” Almost instinctively, her eyes drift to the king and his new bride, dancing together, their heads low and mouths moving. At this distance she can’t read their lips.

_Enjoy the peaceful moment I’ve granted you, Your Majesty. You won’t have many more of them._

Turning her attention to her partner, she fixes on a bright smile and begins, “You know, I’ve heard the most dreadful rumor about the king…”

* * *

Kaze is taking a break, watching Felicia and her sister dance together, when a lithe form drops down next to him, deceptively casual to an onlooker.

Tough, cocky, and in his mid-twenties, Akiyama Haru had been one of the first soldiers to join Corrin’s army during the war. He’d been part of Takumi’s captured forces, freed with the rest when Corrin came and faithfully following their lord into battle. He hadn’t been part of the small, elite squad that made up Corrin’s personal forces, but he’d been one of the higher ranking soldiers in the main army, a trusted scout and vanguard. Like all the forces in Valla’s current standing army, his house had been among the given territories, and so he’d stayed. His history and reliability were the main reason Corrin had chosen him for the spy job.

“Any news?” Kaze inquires quietly.

“None. He’s been pretty angry about hosting me the past few months, but he seemed placated at receiving an invitation to the wedding.” The ninja glances back over his shoulder—not so obviously with a turn of his head, but just subtly shifting his body and eyes. “I left him alone to see what he’d do with the opportunity, but I still don’t want to be away long.”

Clever, if risky. But then that was Haru in a nutshell. Never the type to settle for the bird in the hand, he’d let it go so he could try to track it back to its nest in the bush. Not Kaze’s thing, but Haru was the one on the job, not him. “You’re certain he has no link to the recent attempts on the king?”

“Positive. I’ve tracked all his letters, watched his funds, paid off a couple of the servants, hung out with the locals—he’s clean. As clean as a politician can be, anyway.”

Nothing, then. The exact same nothing Haru had been reporting for months. Kaze rubs his chin, wondering if their fear of noble conspiracies has caused them to read too much into things. Maybe an angry servant was just an angry servant.

“Thanks for doing this on such short notice, especially with your new son,” he sighs, “Lord Corrin really needed someone he trusted for the job, and the list of qualified people was pretty short. I can’t do it because I have to manage all the information from our agents…”

“Hey, it’s no problem.” With the formalities over, Haru relaxes and waves a hand, a confident smirk on his face. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him, but…well, you needed the best. And that’s me.”

“We can pull you out, if you want. It’s been several months with no sign of…”

But Haru shakes his head, a deep frown tugging at his mouth. Kaze studies him closely. “You suspect something.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, in which the melody of Elise’s violin and the drunken rambunctiousness of the crowd ring louder. “There’s nothing concrete,” the black-haired man finally says, “but it’s just…instinct, you know? That feeling you get whenever you step into a place and it’s trapped.”

Kaze knows that feeling well. The prickling at his skin, the tugging in his gut, the instinctual sense of _wrongness_ that all ninja are trained to pay attention to. He’d ignored it once, in Cheve. He hasn’t ignored it since.

Still, he checks, just to be sure. “You said there was nothing.”

“That’s the thing. There is nothing. _Too_ much nothing. No plotting at all, not even against other nobles—and if there’s one thing I know about us nobles,” Haru adds, with a jab of his finger, “it’s that we love to plot against each other. There’s so much nothing it goes right back around to being suspicious.”

“If you’re right—”

“I always am—”

“Then keep watching him. Investigate, but don’t put yourself in danger.”

“So just keep doing what I’m doing. Can do.” Haru snaps off a salute, then snatching up a sushi roll makes his way back to Lord Jiro in a way that looks completely casual while still being purposeful.

* * *

The rabble doesn’t begin to disperse until the sun is kissing the horizon, its rays turning the lake outside flame-gold. A good amount of the remaining crowd is too drunk to notice the king and his new queen rising, but those who aren’t send up a cheer.

“Go get ‘er, brother!” Takumi slurs, swaying in his seat and raising what must be his fifth or sixth cup of sake in toast. Next to him Hinata is completely conked out, snoring loudly, while Oboro mumbles something about fabrics and measurements.

“Go to sleep, Takumi!” Corrin shouts back, wishing his skin didn’t blush so easily as Azura muffles a snort. His head has a pleasantly warm buzz from the alcohol, though he hasn’t drunk more than two cups. Passing out on his wedding night would be something he would _never_ live down.

Azura barely has time to give him a smile before Felicia and Mozu swarm her, hurrying her off to help her out of the dress. Leaving the sounds of the party behind, Corrin heads off by himself to their chambers. Once _his_ chambers, refurbished during the wedding to share Azura’s possessions. His eyes stray to the new bed, large and cushy and very prominent.

The half-dragon tugs at his collar, wondering when it got so warm. Unclasping his cape, he tosses it over a chair and drops onto the bed. Wonders whether he should finish getting undressed and decides not to. So he waits, trying not to fidget.

It feels like an eternity before Azura stumbles inside, shooting a glare at the feminine giggles behind her. “I think they’ve had too much to drink,” she sighs as the door closes, making her way towards the bed. “They wouldn’t stop making raunchy jokes.”

She sits next to him, and he’s immediately distracted by the way her dress hikes up as she crosses her legs. Her hair is down and she’s wearing just a nightgown, and there’s a lot of skin, and he should stop staring, probably. Then he remembers that she’s his wife and he’s allowed to stare now. So he does, drinking in her form with relish, and when he looks back up at Azura he’s a bit gratified to see that she’s blushing as much as him.

Now if he could just figure out what to say to really set the mood… “Some wedding, huh?” _Really, Corrin? This is how you start? Really?!_

Fortunately his stupid comment makes her giggle. “Some wedding. The bride looked very happy.”

“Well, the groom looked very happy, too.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, I should be making this romantic, but I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never…um…”

“That’s okay,” she interrupts with a small, nervous smile. “That makes me glad, actually. I haven’t either. It means we can share this with only each other.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, unable to look away from her golden eyes, mesmerizing in the light. “I’m glad for that too.”

That’s right. There’s no need to rush. They’re _married_ now; they have the rest of their lives to get things right. That thought calms him significantly. She’s his and he’s hers, and that won’t _ever_ change.

She smiles again, and gods, he loves her so much he can’t put it into words. So he doesn’t try, pulling her close and kissing her as deeply as he can instead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had so much fun coming up with the customs and culture for the wedding. World-building is fun.
> 
> The custom of bathing before the wedding was pulled from ancient Greek wedding rites. Normally it’s only the bride who does that, but equality. Praying before the wedding was also from ancient Greek culture.
> 
> Azura’s wedding dress is blue because in medieval times, that was actually the color the bride wore, not white! Also because she wears white so much I wanted to change it up. Her veil is basically the veil she wears in her dark songstress outfit, and also something Greek women wore to weddings.
> 
> The wedding vows are slightly modified versions of Catholic wedding vows, partially because they’re what I’m used to, partially because I drew massive blanks every time I tried to write custom ones.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the wait, everyone. I really didn’t intend for this long to go between updates. A lot of stuff just happened—Sun and Moon came out, then I got to go home for Thanksgiving, then I suddenly fell sick, then my finals started creeping up on me—and I just did not find a lot of time to work on this. But it’s here now!

 

 The tavern bustles with activity, serving girls expertly dodging grabby hands as they weave through the tables. A bard strums his lute near the center of the room, singing a raunchy tune at pitches too high to be on-key. In one shadowy corner sits a man, hooded and hunched over as he nurses a cup of ale. A table a few feet away from him is seated by off-duty guards, recognizable by the noble crests of their employers on their capes. The hooded man raises his head as a snippet of their conversation reaches his ears, interest spiking as he recognizes the subject.

“…a tide unhappy with how things are being run. M’lord’s not one for gossip, but even he seems a bit rebellious of late—”

“Quiet, man!” his neighbor hisses, throwing glances around. “Even in a place as busy as this, the walls have ears, yeah?”

The first man mumbles an apology and ducks. The subject is very smoothly changed, but it’s too late; their eavesdropper leans back speculatively.

In the four months since King Corrin and Queen Azura’s wedding, all has not been well.  A faction of anti-Nohrians had begun revolting after King Ryoma’s marriage to Princess Elise, and trade from their neighbor had slowed after several of the caravan routes fell under rebel control. This in turn led to food increasing in price, which no one was happy about. The king was doing his best to keep the situation under control, but there really was nothing he could do except wait for things in Hoshido to sort themselves out.

The situation in Nohr is not much better. King Xander has been pushing through reformative legislation, aiming to abolish the meritocratic nature which had led to King Garon’s concubine war. Unsurprisingly, doing so has made him extremely unpopular with nobility and commoners alike; the former see him as infringing on their rights, and the latter see him as taking away their chances of climbing up the social ladder. With his wife recently discovering herself to be pregnant, he more or less has his hands full.

And of course, there are all the troubling rumors about King Corrin floating about. Of him being dragon-blooded. Of his father, Prince Hydra, actually being Anankos in human form. Of him inheriting his father’s insanity—and some of the more suspicious Hoshidans will nod and recall _yes, yes, I knew someone in Shirasagi, and they say he was a mad beast that day_ —of him being cursed, of him just waiting for an opportunity to tyrannize Valla.

Most of the talk is prevalent among the nobility, as the commoners rarely care who sits on their throne so long as he or she rules well. Gossip about their king’s heritage, while an interesting pastime, is ultimately of little concern to them. But it still bodes ill for the young king.

Gunter tugs the hood higher over his head as he rises. He hands his waitress a coin, then makes his exit. He mounts his loyal old horse, waiting faithfully outside, and trots away, a speculative frown on his face.

* * *

“…the common people seem to care little, not knowing much of dragons and gods, but the higher ones seem nervous. You may have a situation on your hands soon. From a friend,” Kaze finishes, folding the letter neatly and placing it on the table between them. Corrin sighs and presses his fingers to his forehead, glancing about the room. Titled “war room”, he generally holds his meetings with his advisors and closest confidants here, and they’re all gathered around the large rectangular table that dominates the center. He’s at the head of the table, Azura at his right, frowning; their retainers have the seats closest to them. Further down are Lilith, Nestor, and several more men and women. Normally Jakob and Flora would be here as well, but they’d left for a vacation disguised as a diplomatic trip to the Ice Tribe a few weeks previous, and their seats are conspicuously empty.

This is not the first anonymous letter he’s received so far. It’s the fourth, with the other three coming in on a monthly basis. The messenger boy who delivers it is tight-lipped about who gives them to him, claiming to have never seen his or her face. It’s suspicious, but investigating the information in the letters has proven them to be right so far.

“And you believe this ‘friend’, my lord?” Nestor asks, leaning forward with his hands clasped.

“It echoes what my own spies have been saying,” Kaze tells him. “No one’s acted on it so far, but people are definitely talking. Some of the nobles who dislike you in particular.”

“Haru’s reports still say nothing’s wrong?” Azura questions.

“They still do,” the ninja nods.

Corrin closes his eyes, concentrating. How many could he count to stand with him, if things went badly? The Chalons, the Akiyamas…all the Vallite nobles, probably, if their gratitude to him outweighs their fear of his father. A few more Hoshidan and Nohrian lords. Not all of them.

“I don’t know what to do,” he finally admits, opening his eyes and looking at everyone around him. “If some of the nobles really are planning…rebellion, I don’t think there’s anything I can do to stop them.”

Taking family members hostage is just about the only thing he can think of to ensure their obedience, and the thought makes him ill. He cannot—will not—subject anyone to the same situation he and Azura had been in. This isn’t a problem he can fix with a slash of his quill and an adjustment of the laws. This is something he can only take as it comes.

“Your Majesty, and I apologize for the brazenness, but…is there any truth to these rumors?” Nestor’s face is lined with worry.

Corrin weighs the question very carefully. Another king might tell him to mind his place, but Corrin’s always encouraged those in his retinue to speak their minds. Confirming these rumors runs the risk of having his people turn on him, but on the other hand…the rumors are too accurate to be created by chance. Someone had to know his secret, and that someone may have a way to prove it. Coming clean, at least to his allies, might be the safer option in the long run. Steepling his fingers, he decides to chance it. “There is. Anankos was indeed my father, but that’s all that’s true. I’m certainly not trying to bring about the ruin of Valla or the world, I promise.”

He watches, trying to tell what his closest friends and advisors are thinking. Kaze’s face doesn’t change expression, though the way his eyebrows have risen betray his surprise. Felicia’s mouth openly works in shock, while Mozu looks downright flabbergasted. A few of the nobles start whispering to each other, while Nestor’s face has gone three shades paler. Azura takes his hand under the table, unnoticed, and from her seat further down Lilith gives him a supportive smile.

Silas pushes back his chair and stands up. “Well, son of that tyrant or not, you’re still my king and my best friend,” he declares, and the rest add in their own words of assent. Only Nestor is quiet, staring down at his gloves as if all the answers to the world’s secrets lie in them.

“Thank you, everyone,” is all Corrin can say, touched by their acceptance. “I’ve decided to inform you all because I trust you, so I expect what I just said to never leave this room. Now, let’s turn to the matter of these rumors. How dangerous are they?”

“Rumors destroyed my mother,” Azura murmurs. Her eyes are sad and haunted by some distant memory, and he squeezes her hand. “They never seem like much at first, but they build up, until the weight of them crushes you. And this early in our regime… we need to put a stop to them, now.”

“Especially since they have grains of truth,” Lilith adds. “Twisted truth, made to look awful, but truth nonetheless.”

“Then how do we end them?” Corrin asks, looking about his advisors.

“We can counter the rumors with our own,” Kaze suggests. “Put a positive spin on them. Say that even _if_ you are the son of a tyrant and a dragon, it means nothing about your own moral character. Point to all the historical accounts of righteous sons and daughters turning on their manic parents. There’s even examples as recent as Lord Xander and your Nohrian siblings. Paint yourself as a tragic figure overcoming the burdens of his legacy.”

“In fact, you could even use your dragonkin heritage as a positive,” Felicia mentions. “We _worship_ dragons, don’t we? They’re revered.”

Azura glances at Nestor. “We do, but the Vallites have a particularly bad history with _this_ particular dragon.” Corrin follows her gaze, frowning; he can’t tell what the Vallite is thinking, and that worries him. He adds, “And I have no desire to be held up as a deity.”

“We can call in help from your brothers if we have to,” Mozu offers, timid, and Corrin shakes his head.

“No. I’ve let them coddle me long enough. I need to show the nobles I can handle threats on my own, or they’ll never respect me. Besides, even if I wanted to, my siblings are busy enough with their own problems.” His siblings’ last letters have all been tense of late. Xander’s wife is pregnant and his people are angry with him, Ryoma and Elise struggle to handle the rioting, and his other siblings are each occupied with helping their respective king.

They spend another hour debating, shooting ideas back and forth. When he can see the sun beginning to set through the windows, casting the room in fire-gold, Corrin decides it’s time to stop. “I’ll take everything you’ve all said into consideration. Thank you, and you’re all dismissed.”

As they all rise, Nestor is the first to leave, shuffling to the door with a speed that belies his age. Corrin makes to move towards him, but a hand on his arm stops him. His wife gazes up at him. “Give him some time,” Azura says quietly.

“I feel like I should say something, though,” the half-dragon admits, shooting another glance at the door. Nestor’s pale green hair is already bobbing down the hall, quickly swallowed up by the other people. “This has to be a shock.”

“I’ll talk to him for you, if you want,” Lilith offers. “He probably won’t want to see you anytime soon.”

“Are you sure?” Azura asks with a frown. “I’m fairly certain he still hates you.”

“He probably does,” is his sister’s response. “But the last we spoke, we agreed to at least be civil. And I can understand his feelings, a little. I loved our father, but I was afraid of him too, in a way that only those in his service or his slavery truly know. That gives me…perspective.”

The king sighs, running a hand through his hair. “If you’re certain about it, then that would be helpful. If he’s still upset or has doubts after, tell me and I’ll set aside time to speak to him.”

She smiles and gives a salute, like they’re back in the Northern Fortress. “You can count on me.”

* * *

She gives Nestor a few days to mull everything over before she goes to speak to him. Already the halls are abuzz with whispers, servants mouthing the words _“Anankos’ son”_ to each other, over and over. Corrin had requested the truth of his heritage be kept among those in the war council meeting, while having supporters suggest on the grapevine that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if their king were the son of Anankos. That way he could counter the worst parts of the rumors without technically confirming anything.

“You,” Nestor says flatly, upon seeing her standing outside his room in the servants’ quarters. While Vallite attitude has warmed to her enough that she is no longer greeted with glares every time she sets foot outside, very few would be happy to see her.

“Me,” Lilith agrees. “May I come in?”

He studies her suspiciously, then mutters something her ears can’t pick up and steps aside.  She enters the room, looking about. As the head chamberlain, Nestor is given a slightly larger living space than most. Lilith has been here once before, and she finds it much the same from then: clean, sharp-smelling, and well-lit. She can understand the constant light; the slaves had not had that privilege in Fort Tartarus.

“I suppose you knew.” The green-haired man’s bitter voice breaks her out of her thoughts. He still hasn’t moved from the door.

“About Corrin being Anankos’s son and my brother? Yes, I did. He didn’t learn of it until after the war was over, though. After he’d rescued all of you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? We escaped a dragon’s rule, only to be once again under a dragon’s rule. You’ll forgive me if for being a bit ill at the thought.”

“I can, and I don’t hold it against you. That’s not why I’m here.”            

“Then what do you want?” He does not sound angry or suspicious. He just sounds tired.

“To tell you that I understand the fear you feel.”

Anger flashes in his eyes. “You cannot possibly—”

“I didn’t live as a slave, but that didn’t mean I was free,” Lilith interrupts, and it’s so out-of-character he falls silent. “I was as afraid of my father as everyone else. He was…terrible, in his anger. Cruel with his words, and he was not kind to those who failed him. Being his daughter did not exempt me from this. So trust me when I say that, though I wanted his love, I was scared of him.

“And part of that cruelty _is_ inherent in a dragon’s nature. But it doesn’t define us. Whatever his heritage may be, my brother is a good man.”

“By all accounts so was Anankos, before his madness consumed him. Can you guarantee your brother won’t turn out the same way? Can you guarantee _you_ won’t?”

Her hand tightens around her dragonstone, tucked deep in her apron pocket. A dragon’s sanity is a thin, tenacious thing; even she has struggled with it. It was easier when she was in Moro’s service, as the naturally calm nature of Astral Dragons had suppressed her own wild urges, but now she must readjust to them.

It doesn’t help that Anankos taught her enough of dragons to be of use to him, and no more. She knows how to fight, where the scales part and expose vulnerable flesh, and how to fly. But she does not know if the dragonstone will continue to work for her and her brother, whether their lifespans are long as a dragon’s or short as a human’s—she suspects hers, at least, will be long. She does not know whether the madness will eventually consume them too.

There is one thing she is certain of the madness, however. “No, I cannot. But I can guarantee we will fight it every step of the way. And as someone who knew my father personally, let me suggest this: perhaps Anankos didn’t fall because of his madness. Perhaps he fell because the country he loved turned on him, and he had to go through it alone.”

Then she turns on her heel and leaves Nestor to his thoughts.

* * *

Azura finds Corrin staring at his dragonstone, turning it over and over in his hands, when she returns to their room for the night. His gaze is intent, focused, his brow furrowed as though trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.

Adjusting to married life has been…interesting. Some aspects of it aren’t all that different—they’d practically lived together beforehand, so sharing meals, for example, was something they were familiar with. Other aspects were _quite_ different, such as sleeping together (not sex, though that was enjoyable, but in the other way). Corrin was a cuddler, which she normally would have found endearing if he also weren’t a heavy sleeper with an iron grip. Escaping was impossible in that situation. If she woke up before him, she had pretty much no choice but to lie there and wait for him to wake too, or hit him awake. He in turn complained about her thrashing in her sleep. Things like that. It was hard, but they were slowly getting used to it.

Adjusting to her queenly duties was perhaps the least difficult of things that came with her marriage—if anything the hardest part was getting used to the crown, more a circlet of gold really, she now had to wear at all times. Most of her duties she’d done beforehand, and of the new ones appearing at social events was the only one she really disliked. Fortunately there had only been one of those so far, the party celebrating the anniversary of Valla’s rebirth, but there would be more in the future.

 _Hard to imagine it’s already been a year_ …

“What’s troubling you, love?” she asks, dropping down on the bed beside him.

“Nothing,” he answers vaguely, slipping his dragonstone necklace back under his tunic. “Just thinking, is all.”

She purses her lips. She gets the sense Corrin’s hiding something from her. Azura contemplates pushing it, but remembering the last few times he’s been troubled decides to back down. She trusts he’ll tell her when he’s ready. “Alright.”

They each set about preparing for bed. Azura hums an absent tune as she changes into her nightgown and combs her hair. Then she cuddles with Corrin under the covers, head against his chest, listening to the reassuring drum of his heartbeat in her ear. He’s warm and cozy, and she’s just starting to drift off when his voice destroys that.

“How much do you know about dragons?”

Azura has to repress a huff at being pulled back from the edge of sleep. But she registers his question, and turns over the contents of her mind. Queen Mikoto had given her the dragonstone in case of the day Corrin needed it, and her mother had taught her the song to weaken Anankos, but neither of them had actually explained the lore behind dragons. So it’s with a frown that she has to say, “Not much, I’m afraid. Why?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he sighs, pulling back slightly so he can look down at her. His red eyes almost seem to glow like a cat’s in the night. “Maybe we should send someone back to the Rainbow Sage’s tower. See if there’s anything we missed about dragons in there.”

“Well, I’m certainly not opposed to it, but what brought this on?”

The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. “I just…feel like I should know more about that side of me. Just in case something happens.”

“You’re you,” she promises, lacing their fingers together. “And nothing’s going to change that.”

He presses his lips to her neck, and she can feel his smile against her skin in the darkness. “Thank you, Azura. But I still want to know. Just in case.”

“We’ll find out,” she promises, and the conversation dies after that.

* * *

As the sheets of rain pour down on him and the wind whips at his face, Gunter tightens his cloak around him in a futile attempt to ward the bad weather off and asks himself: just what is he doing out here?

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. He knows why he’s out here, in the middle of the night in a storm. He is chasing whispers, seeking atonement for his crimes against Corrin by investigating the rumors. All accounts indicate a Hoshidan daimyo, by the name of Lord Jiro, is at the center; Gunter is a bit surprised and a little disappointed by his protégé’s failure to investigate .

As the walls of the noble’s estate come into view, a guard steps out of the rain, lantern held high. He squints at Gunter suspiciously.

“State your business,” he demands.

“Give an old man shelter for the night?” Gunter asks in as meek a voice as he can manage. He’s left his weapons, armor and horse at the town’s inn, and he feels absurdly naked without them. At least he has a knife strapped to his boot and years of experience for protection.

The guard frowns, torn between simple compassion for an apparently feeble old man and wariness.

Gunter spreads his arms. “As you see, I have nothing to harm you with. One night, is all I ask, then I’ll be on my way.”

“I’ll take you to the mistress,” the Hoshidan decides.

Lord Jiro must be out, then. That’s fortunate—while still somewhat racist to Nohrians, his wife, from what Gunter has gathered, is not as extreme, and should have no problems adhering to the rules of hospitality for him.

He’s brought into the estate, grand with its red-shingled roofs, pristine white walls, and large koi ponds, with water clear enough to perfectly mirror the stormy sky. The guard walks at his back, and out of the corner of his eye Gunter can see that he’s left his katana loose in its sheath. He is hustled into the main building, through the entrance hall, and into a large receiving room, where he meets the lady of the house. Lady Kaori is a heavily perfumed woman, wearing the robes of an onmyoji. Rich, decadent, and she looks down her nose at Gunter when she sees him, putting down her cup of tea.

“What have you brought me, Tetsuo?” she asks her guard.

“A traveler, my lady,” he responds, pushing Gunter forward. “Nohrian, by the looks of him, but he’s old and wishes to call on our hospitality.”

Thunder booms outside, and the room is briefly illuminated by lightning through the window. Not even a racist can turn what looks like a feeble old man out into a chilly, rainy night, and Lady Kaori’s face softens when she looks at Gunter, trembling and wet and apparently weak. “Alright. Hand your cloak to a servant, I’ll have Tetsuo bring you to the kitchens so you can get a hot bowl of soup.”

He murmurs his thanks and ambles after the guards. Gunter’s glad they opt for soup, as he still can’t get his old fingers to work Hoshidan chopsticks properly. As he eats, some of the servants stop and shoot him wary glances; a few even dare to approach him, and he fends off questions about what he’s doing, travelling alone and at night, with a simple lie about all the rumors of the king making him want to flee Valla. That seems to make the others relax, and their tongues become a bit looser. Not loose enough to say anything incriminating, but he learns an interesting piece of information: something about a “guest” in the dungeons.

When night falls he is brought to a room in the guest quarters. Gunter waits for hours, soldier’s training keeping him awake until most of the house is quiet. Then he slips out from his bed and heads straight to where he’s gleaned the dungeon building is, grimacing as the rain—which has not let up at all—whips at his face.

The man on guard out front is lazy and inefficient, half-asleep; it is an easy matter to dispatch him with a solid blow to the back of the head. He falls over, unconscious, and Gunter steps over his body and makes his way inside.

It’s dark, and he backtracks outside to take the guard’s lantern. Raising it, orange light scatters, illuminating the shadows to reveal several cells. The one at the very back has a solid black shape within, hunched over, and Gutner steps towards it.

There’s a man within, wearing ninja garb. He squints at Gunter through a black eye, grimacing at the light. “Well you’re def’n’tly not one ‘f the estate guards,” he slurs through a mouth of broken teeth. “You were in th’ army, weren’t you? One of th’ king’s advisors.”

“That’s right.” Gunter doesn’t make the mistake of lowering his guard, keeping one ear on the door even as he speak. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Akiyama Haru. Was assigned by th’ king to watch a potential threat. Decided to take a risk, to try and verify my suspicions.” The ninja laughs self-deprecatingly. “You can see how well that turned out. Now ‘Lord’ Jiro’s holding me over my family to get their cooperation, and forging letters to the palace about how everything’s alright, no need to investigate further.”

Well, that explains why Corrin isn’t looking over here, if fake letters about how nothing’s wrong are being sent. More troubling is the ninja’s last name. The Akiyamas are a fairly large, well-respected family. If the rebels have their loyalty, even forced, they would gain quite a bit in soldiers.

“Tell me quickly,” the great knight mutters, glancing over his shoulder. “What’s happened? What have you found out?”

“Jiro’s working with some lady…never got her name or face, but she knows a lot. They want t’ overthrow th’ king…plannin’ to start up a rebellion. They’re th’ ones who started up all those rumors in th’ first place…”

His fingers tighten around the bars of the cell. As he’d feared. “Do you know who their sympathizers are?”

Haru rattles off a list of names, and Gunter memorizes each one, tucking the syllables away carefully inside his mind. When the ninja is done he turns, intending to rummage through the unconscious warden’s keys. “I’ll get you out of here.”

“No, you need to _leave_ me here,” Haru says forcefully, with more clarity than he’s managed in the entire conversation. “If they come down and find that I’m gone, they’ll know the jig is up. They’re already nervous about the king’s counter-rumors; my escaping might push them to rebel sooner than they planned, before we can do any good with this information. Least this way King Corrin’ll have the advantage of knowing they’re coming; he can prepare for the situation, maybe even contain it a little before it gets too out of hand.”

Gunter nods, slowly. The spy’s words make sense, much as it pains him to leave a loyal soldier behind. But he knows some sacrifice is necessary.

“The king will rescue you,” he promises instead. “As soon as he can.”

Haru chuckles and leans his head back against the wall. “He needs to focus on getting this under control. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gunter lingers only long enough to slip Haru some of his leftover dinner between the bars, which the man devours like a wolf. Then the Nohrian adjusts the unconscious guard’s body, placing a fresh mug of beer in his hand so that he’ll think he just passed out from drinking too much. Double checking the area to ensure there was no sign of him ever being there, he returns to his room. He will wait for morning, feign gratitude and forgetfulness, and go on his way. After…

This isn’t the sort of thing he can just trust to a messenger, like he has his past letters. The names, the info, all of it would tip their hand if the insurgents got ahold of it. The only choice he has is to go to try and find one of Kaze’s spies and hope they believe him, or go to Castle Avalon and deliver the information personally. The former would take too long, so really, his only choice is…

A feeling of resignation creeps up on him, and Gunter sighs. It seems he’ll have to pay Corrin a visit after all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I say you won't have to wait as long for next chapter and I make you wait even longer *sweatdrops* Sorry. Writer's block slammed me; though I have the rebellion planned out, actually writing the scenes for it gave me a lot of difficulty. Doesn't help that a friend of mine got me into Overwatch and that game is really addicting.

 

With a sigh, Lilith sets aside the book and reaches for another. Outside, the air is still and windless, and if she looked out the window she’d see the steep descent of Mount Sagesse. The Sevenfold Sanctum and the Rainbow Sage’s house have become historical preservations in two years since his death, and it had taken every bit of royal clout her brother had to get Notre Sagesse’s rulers, King Florian and Queen Nadine, to agree to let her into its library, under the stipend that she was to leave all books in his house. She was also warned that if any of them were damaged in any way, Corrin’s grandchildren would be paying them off. It wasn’t necessary, the Rainbow Sage had used a combination of magic and frequent bookcare to keep his library in good condition, but Notre Sagesse was rather protective of its knowledge.

 _Unfortunately, it seems the Rainbow Sage kept a decided lack of notes on dragons and dragon physiology_ , Lilith muses, flipping idly through the pages. Even humans had notes about their biology for medical studies. But perhaps dragons simply didn’t get sick, and so didn’t need such things. She can’t recall being ill, ever, but there’s no way to know for sure.

She isn’t here alone—Corrin had sent a small contingent of scholars with her, and they’re hastily scribbling words down as fast as they can read them, even on matters unrelated to dragons. The Rainbow Sage’s library is _massive_ , a veritable treasure trove of history. It even has information about Valla, its culture and origins, which they’d thought lost when Anankos had burned down the Vallite royal library.

The next book she’s taken appears to be one of the Rainbow Sage’s diaries. Its age is apparent in the use of parchment instead of paper, and the cover is unassuming, plain brown leather. Her eyes trace idly over the words on the first page, already resigned to finding it as unhelpful as the rest. _—tried my best, but the dragonstones I’ve helped him create—_

She’s turning the page when what she read finally clicks into place. The dragon’s golden eyes snap back to the sentence. Lilith picks the book up and holds it closer, her nose almost touching the parchment, rapidly re-reading the entire page.

_We are the last now, Anankos and I. The few of our kind who hadn’t yet ascended did so two decades ago, when the war ended. Anankos stayed because he simply couldn’t discard his attachment to Valla, and I stayed to try and help him. I’ve tried my best, but the dragonstones I’ve helped him create are insufficient. The first shattered after only a decade; the second, half that; the third, in just a year. His power is simply too great for them to store, and that worries me; he was one of the most powerful of us, and should his sanity deteriorate, I fear what would happen to the humans._

“Father…” Lilith whispers, throat clogging. She knows the story of her father’s fall, of course, but to read the words of someone who knew him, a first-hand account of the events, is a poignant thing. Another part of her mind worries at one small detail—how long did dragons really live, for a decade to be considered something _short_? She hurriedly goes on to the next passage; it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed, as the Rainbow Sage doesn’t date his entries, time apparently being beyond dragons.

_Anankos has given up on the dragonstone plan. He used the shards of the last to make a pendant for the Rheos royal family. Rather than trying to hold back his power, he intends to hold back his madness; he wrote a prophetic song, hoping that in combination with some magic and the dragonstone, the Rheoses will be able to soothe him with it. King Cadros has been friends with Anankos since he helped him forge Valla decades ago, and he easily agreed to the task. I attended the first ceremony, and it’s promising; the king’s voice was beautifully loud and clear, and Anankos looked more at peace than I’ve seen him be in a long time…_

She keeps reading, passing by accounts of war and famine and plague and peace. Nothing else of interest comes up again until the diary is almost over:

_He’s utterly distraught. The Rheoses have been dying from the song, one by one, and the people are starting to hate him for it. Worse, Anankos is asking me to forge a weapon to kill him with. “A golden blade, on par with—no, greater than—the sacred weapons you crafted for Hoshido and Nohr,” was all he said, eyes gazing at something unseen. One of his Silent Dragon visions, probably. “That’s what must kill me, should the worst come to pass. That’s the only thing that could kill me.” I’ve tried to protest it; I’m tired of making weapons of war, and I don’t want to lose the only friend I have left. The humans here, they are nice enough, but they die so fast. But Anankos is adamant…_

_The sword has been forged, and Anankos has left it in Hoshido—he’s afraid if he keeps it in Valla he’ll destroy it in a moment of madness. Now he’s told me he wants me to craft one last dragonstone. Not for him, but for someone else in the future. He wouldn’t say who, but I can suspect. There are no dragons left; but a half-dragon? Most of our kind sneered down at unions with humans, but there have been some before. Some would say they get the worst of both worlds, the lifespan of humans and the primal instincts of dragons. Many of them died young, abhorred as abominations by both worlds and unable to control themselves, too emotional in a way our kind are not. Why did we never think to offer them dragonstones before? They’re weaker than us, it would probably help control their powers perfectly…_

She starts when she reaches the final page, eyebrows climbing up her face.

_To whomever is reading this: I may not have Anankos’s precognition, but I suspect someone, likely whatever half-dragon he sees, will be needing help in the future, and may eventually come here. As far-sighted as he is, my friend sometimes tends to overlook possibilities he doesn’t see, such as the dragonstone breaking or being lost. To you, I leave the secrets of my crafting, should you need another. A bit of dragon’s blood is all you need to craft one, and even diluted, it should work…_

“Yes,” she whispers, unable to stop herself from grinning broadly. “Yes!” One hand pulls out a clean sheet of paper and quill from her apron pocket. Dipping it in the inkpot nearby, Lilith begins to copy the notes on the creation of dragonstones and the biology of half-dragons.

* * *

Corrin is in his study, head in hands as his bleary eyes study the paper before him. It’s a report from the Nohrian town of Belvoir—yesterday evening the mining facility there was overthrown. He doesn’t need to be a seer to know the rebellion is starting. _They mean to take away our weapons so we can’t fight, there’ll be more attacks at other facilities…I’ll have to send more soldiers to each… will they try for food next?_

“Corrin?” Azura knocks gently on the doorframe, and he glances up. She gives him a sympathetic smile. “The guards are reporting that someone’s here to see you.”

“Is this important?” he rasps, rubbing at his eyes. It’s late in the evening and he’s exhausted, but he can’t go to sleep, not yet. Not until he figures out what to do about this.

“It involves your father figure, so yes, I’d say so.”

He shoots out of his chair, tiredness gone. “He came back?”

“Not quite. According to the sentries, he has information about the rebellion for you.”

“A bit late on that,” he mutters with a wry glance at the papers. “But of course I’ll see him. Can you—”

She’s already moving to his abandoned chair. “I’ll finish these up, don’t worry.”

Corrin thanks her with a kiss on the cheek, and leaves to prepare a room to receive Gunter in. He also calls for Nestor. The Vallite still has difficulty looking at him, and he tries not to wonder whether he’ll find a knife in his back someday. Thinking like that is what turns decent people into paranoiacs. So he tries to show that he still trusts him, hoping that maybe it’ll soothe whatever private worries he has.

The guards are firm but not rough as they bring their escort before the king. Sentries had easily spotted him coming in, and upon recognizing the black armor, the sigil on his shield, sent word to their monarch. Guards line the room, and Gunter’s weapons are taken from him before he’s escorted in.

As much as Corrin trusts his old mentor—even still—he can acknowledge the need for security. If he were to die now, Valla would be torn apart by civil war.

“There’s no need to kneel,” he interrupts as Gunter tries to do just that.

He rises, slowly. “If you say so, my lord.” An uncomfortable pause. Corrin’s eyes rake over him. He looks well, uninjured and healthy. That’s good—he’d privately worried about whether he’d be able to take care of himself. _Or if he’d even want to._

After it’s stretched out too long, Corrin says, “Azura and I got your present.” It had been a lovely wooden jewelry box, more for Azura than for Corrin, but he’d instantly recognized it; Gunter had carried it around, one of his last mementos of his late wife. Both the gesture and the knowledge that his father figure had been to his wedding had touched him deeply, and meant far more than any present. “You didn’t have to give something that sentimental.”

“It’ll find more use at a queen’s bedside than in my rucksack.” Gunter sighs and shakes his head, a stern glare Corrin’s familiar with crossing his face—it’s the one he always used to use when his pupils acted up at the Fortress and he wanted them to sit down and listen. “Your Majesty, you know this is no pleasure visit.”

“I do,” he acknowledges. “But I’m still happy to see you again.”

The knight snorts. “You may feel differently when you hear the news I brought.”

And then Corrin listens to the news he brings, indeed feeling the joy drain away, replaced with firm grit and resignation. It’s very helpful, of course it is, knowing for sure who he can count on to side with Lord Jiro, but it hurts. It hurts hearing the list of people who want him gone, who think he can’t rule, who want him _dead._ And of course he’s worried for Haru.

When Gunter is done speaking, Corrin takes a seat and steeples his fingers, bowing his head over them. He wanted to be done with war once Anankos was dead, and it’s being thrust upon him again. It’s scary in a way much worse than when he commanded an army, because he isn’t just holding the lives of soldiers, men and women who knew what they were signing up for; he’s holding the lives of an entire nation, elderly and children and everyone in between, most of whom just want to live in peace.

“Can we trust him?” Nestor asks. He’s never quite been comfortable around Corrin after what he’d learned of him, but the man is still unshakingly loyal to Valla, and the country remains his first and foremost concern. “By all accounts, Your Majesty, this man is a traitor who tried to kill you.”

“I’d trust him with my life,” is Corrin’s firm response. The knight snorts. “Yes, and that turned out fine for you in Valla.”

The half-dragon smiles. “I’m alive, aren’t I? So I would say thing turned out fine, yes.”

“Optimistic as ever.” It’s half-admiring, half-reproachful. Gunter brushes imaginary lint off his travelling cloak. “In any case, I’ve informed you about these rebels. I’ll take my leave now.”

“Gunter,” Corrin starts, rising from his seat. “Stay.”

“Your Majesty, you know why I can’t—”

“I know why you won’t _let_ yourself stay,” the half-dragon interrupts. “And I’ll respect that. I’m not asking you to stay forever. Just to help me through this. I’ll need all the allies I can find, and you suppressed many rebellions under King Garon’s rule; you have experience in this field. I’d appreciate your expertise.”

Gunter flinches at the reminder of his past misdeeds, and the king winces; perhaps he should have worded that more carefully. Then he scoffs and shakes his head. “Rather underhanded of you, my lord. Appealing to what’s left of an old knight’s tattered sense of duty to reel him back in…”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“You didn’t intend it, but it came out that way all the same.” The old knight sighs. “But you’re right, my lord. I can’t turn my back on this, so I’ll stay for now.”

Corrin’s face brightens. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d respect Gunter’s wish to leave, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to spend time with him. A small part of him even hopes that maybe spending time in Castle Avalon, helping with this task, will soothe his guilt somewhat, and make him change his mind. “Excellent. I’ll have a servant show you to a room, you must be tired…”

“I appreciate it. Tomorrow morning assemble a war meeting so we can discuss the situation further; there’s also advice I can impart unto you…”

* * *

_“The Akiyamas are a strong, well-respected clan,” Corrin said, tapping a finger against the parchment showing their clan seal. “We’ll need their support if we want to suppress this rebellion. Currently, Lord Jiro is using the head’s son Haru as leverage for their allegiance. That means rescuing Haru is a top priority—though I would have done it anyway.”_

_“If we fail, Lord Jiro and his allies will likely use it as an excuse to point at the king’s incompetence,” Gunter interjected, one gauntleted hand tapping away at the tabletop. “They’ve already begun revolting in areas, so it’s vital that we get the rescue right on the first try, for there will be no seconds.”_

_The king nodded tensely before resuming, eyes meeting each person when he addressed them. “Lilith is off in Notre Sagesse to find information about dragons; she’s sent word she’ll be back at the end of the week. Azura and I will be handling relations with the nobles we know are siding with Lord Jiro, see if we can sway them. Mozu, you’re in charge of stockpiling food; depending on what they target, we may find a shortage on our hands. Silas, send soldiers to strengthen the garrisons of our mining and food resources, they’ll probably attack them to weaken us. Felicia, you’re good with gossip and your betrothed is in charge of intelligence; use the grapevine to worm out anything you can about the rebels. You’re also in charge of Kaze’s duties for a while, until he’s done with what I’m about to assign him .”_

_They all nodded at their given tasks. Corrin turned to Kaze. “Kaze, I’m entrusting you with leading the rescue mission to save Haru. Gunter will fill you in on the security and layout of the estate; take whatever men and resources you think you need and be gone tomorrow morning.”_

_The ninja bowed, one arm bent across his chest. “It will be done, my liege.”_

His fists tighten in memory. _I will not fail you again._

That was what he’d vowed, as he stared at the king’s dead body in Cheve years ago. _I will not fail again._ He has only recently forgiven himself for his mistakes there. Being freed of guilt after carrying it for fourteen years, more than half his life, has been a strange sensation. He has no desire to ever pick up the chains again.

More than that, he feels personally responsible for Haru being in the situation he is. He’d failed to notice that the recent letters were forged, too distracted by the possibilities of an insurrection to look closer at an assurance that _one_ noble was not going to rebel. Perhaps if he were better at his job, they could have quashed this months ago.

Felicia would have chided him for thinking that way, he thinks with a small, wry smile. She never likes it when he engages in self-deprecation. His betrothed had made it perfectly clear to him that he was to return alive from the mission, teary eyes threatening waterworks if he didn’t. He couldn’t promise he would—and she knew it, she was as much a soldier as him—but he had promised to not take any unnecessary risks.

Now, he and a group of some twelve others crouch outside the estate, watching the guards patrol the walls. Gunter had drawn a map of it, from his brief time inside, and they’d all studied it carefully, memorizing everything depicted. They know the dungeon is near the guardhouse, behind the main building. They also know it is near the south wall, only a short dash away, and while the wall is twenty feet high and frequently patrolled, other areas are not so protected.

With a few hand motions, Kaze signals his men to begin to move, scaling the walls and disappearing into the nooks and crannies on the other side. There will be no speaking until they’ve extracted Haru and themselves from the estate. All communication will be done through hand signals and body language.

Despite what intelligence Gunter gave them, there were some things he simply could not provide—they don’t know when the guards are scheduled to change, for example. So there can be no incapacitation, at least not until they reach Haru. Missing guards might be noicted right away and alarm sounded. They will be relying solely on stealth.

They move slowly across the estate, keeping to the walls. The plan is to move alongside it, counter-clockwise from their starting position in the north, until they reach the prison building. A direct route across the yard would be faster, but with the moon hanging bright and full in the sky, it’s also considerably riskier. Here, in the shadows of the walls, they can hide.

In a stroke of good luck, the guard on duty at the prison is the same one Gunter told them about, lazy and half-asleep. He’s halfway through a yawn when Kaze flash steps behind him. One arm goes around his mouth, muffling his yell, while a dagger slices through his neck. Ruby drops of blood splatter the ground at the guard’s feet, and his struggling form stills. Kaze drops his body and, with three as backup, darts inside the building—the rest of the ninja stay outside as watch.

It’s dark, but moonlight shines through the bars of the windows. Haru is in the last cell, dozing. Ninja instincts jerk him awake at their soundless approach, and he immediately grasps what’s happening. He keeps silent, eyes glittering in the dark, as Kaze crouches and cracks the lock.

The door swings open. The sole healer they brought, an onmyoji named Ayame, raises her festal. The inside of the dungeon is briefly illuminated by green light, and the scent of flowers fills Kaze’s nostrils. Haru’s eyes slide shut in relief as the bruises and blood on his face and body close.

Once he’s healed, Kaze extends a hand. The other man stumbles when he tries to stand; his hair and clothes are ragged and filthy, his cheeks gaunt. They both still when the sound of an owl’s hoot echoes through the night—the signal from the ninja outside that someone is approaching. Kaze’s eyes are training about for a backup escape route when the owl hoots again, thrice this time; threat neutralized.

When he cautiously steps over the threshold, there’s a freshly dead body at his feet. Perhaps an unfortunately patrolling soldier, perhaps a guard going to the privy. He’ll never know. But if they aren’t out by the time the soldier’s absence is noted, they’ll have a fight on their hands. Going as fast as they dare, they begin retracing their steps.

They have almost made it out, and Kaze is starting to think everything’s going too well, when the loud ringing of a brass bell shatters the silence of the night, and the tramping of feet on grass reaches their ears. Kaze shifts his grip on Haru so that one arm is freed, moving towards his shuriken.

Unlike the one lazy guard on duty, the lancers who charge them are sharp-eyed and filled with vigor. The moonlight glances off the blades of their naginatas. Resolute, the soldiers with Kaze move forward for the contingency plan—hold off all attackers long enough for him to escape with the target.

The clashing of steel on steel rings out as the two forces meet. Disengaging from the fight, Kaze ducks beneath arrows and spells as he makes his way to the walls. Behind him, Haru’s breath is coming in harsh, ragged gasps as he tries to keep up. They’re relying almost entirely on their comrades keeping the attention off them, and it only works for so long before four soldiers notice and rush them.

Haru taps Kaze on the shoulder, his fingers moving rapidly in familiar Hoshidan code. _Leave me_.

The green-haired ninja shakes his head, firmly and shortly. An exasperated look crosses the other man’s face, but soldiers are rushing towards them; there’s no time for further argument. Fingers tap again, clumsy in haste. _Give me a weapon._

It’s a bad idea. Haru’s in no condition to fight; even with the recent injuries patched up, he’s still malnourished and weak from months of imprisonment. But he deserves a chance to at least defend himself, so Kaze slips him a dagger. Then he sinks into a battle stance, eyes calculating, calculating…

His fingers flick out a shuriken with expert practice, lodging it in one’s unexposed throat. The man falls; then the other three are upon them. Kaze has to let go of Haru to weave and dodge; in such close quarters, with an injured comrade nearby, he can’t risk throwing shuriken, so he can only nick at them. The poison on the edges of his weapons will wear them down, but it’ll take time, time they don’t have. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Haru trying to fight off a swordmaster with just the dagger, barely able to deflect his blows.

Kaze spins, risking a thrown shuriken at the swordmaster. It tears open his leg, pushing him off-guard long enough for Haru’s dagger to stab deep in his belly. What happens after that, Kaze doesn’t see, as white-hot pain rips down his back.

They start backwards as a fiery horse charges inches away, ramming into the guards and sending them flying. It circles around their bodies with a ghostly whiny before disappearing. Kaze shoots a grateful glance at Ayame; she sets aside her glowing scroll and reaches for her festal, channeling magic through it into the gash on his side. He sighs in relief as it stitches shut. It’s the last thing the young woman ever does, because a javelin arcs through the air and pierces her chest seconds later. With a bloody gurgle, she falls, festal slipping out of her fingers.

Kaze turns away, sparing a moment to mentally say a prayer for her. But her life has bought them a reprieve; the javelin-thrower is either dead or doesn’t see them, because he or she doesn’t appear to take back their weapon or pursue them. His purple eyes glance at Haru as he pulls out two pairs of metallic climbing claws, shuko, they’re called. _Can you climb?_

 _Got no choice, do I?_ Haru’s dryness is visible even through code. Setting his jaw, the black-haired man steps away from Kaze and straps his set on. He shakily starts to climb the walls, the other trailing behind. It’s nerve-wrackingly slow; Kaze could normally be over this in a few seconds, but he has to stay with Haru in case his strength fails and he starts to slip. He is very much aware they’re relying solely on the darkness and the battle to camouflage them.

The whistling is the only warning Kaze gets, and he jerks hard to the left. Half a second later, an arrow slams into the spot his shoulder had been, embedded deeply in the wall. With a frustrated growl Kaze twists, spots the archer crouching on an opposite rooftop, and throws a shuriken in her general direction. It doesn’t hit, but it startles her enough that she slips. She falls backwards, her shriek cut off short by impact with the ground.

Flipping back around, Kaze notes that Haru’s reached the top, and rapidly scales the rest of the wall in seconds. He keeps low to avoid alerting any snipers to his position and drops to the ground on the other side with a grunt, landing cat-like on his feet. Around him a few others are helping Haru down.

 _This is all?_ He signs to one.

_The rest are inside, buying us time._

One of the first tasks all ninja trainees had was to train a puppy. For one year it was an affectionate, loving animal, following them everywhere and assisting them in various situations. Then, at the end of the year, they had to slit its throat or else forfeit the training. It was a lesson to never become so attached to something that you weren’t willing to leave them to die, or even kill them yourself, if duty called for it.

Saizo had had an easier time of it than Kaze, and still did. But he too had eventually worked up the nerve to kill his dog and pass the test. He would never forget the faces of those comrades he lost, but he would never jeopardize the mission to save them either. So he only nods stoically at this news, mentally preparing himself to write the letters to their families.

Elixirs are distributed, everyone taking only a single sip, enough to seal the worst wounds. Then they’re on their feet again. There’s no time to rest; it won’t be long before Lord Jiro’s soldiers set up a perimeter search for any stragglers, and they need to be gone before then. There are fliers waiting at the rendezvous point, a mile away; wyverns, since pegasi are strictly diurnal. Enough to escape, but not enough to fight, should the worst come.

Of the original thirteen men and women who went to rescue Akiyama Haru, only a little less than half made it out. Four were killed in battle, two were captured, and two more died of their wounds on the road home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Long-time fans of Fire Emblem may notice some similarities between the half-dragons and the Branded, and I did pull from Tellius lore a bit (specifically the parts about being outcast by both “races” and getting screwed inheritance-wise) when making them. As for why I gave them a human lifespan instead of a dragon or manakete one? That’s based entirely off Corrin aging normally. He looked twenty by the time he was twenty, whereas manaketes and half-manaketes age slower. There’s…really nothing else. Fire Emblem really tends to sort of hem and haw about how half-dragons/half-manaketes/dragons aging works.
> 
> Tl;dr—Fire Emblem doesn’t offer much information, and this is happier than him outliving everyone he loves, so it’s the route I’m going.
> 
> Anyway, that’s my first time writing any sort of extended action sequence. Let me know if any of it seemed too clunky, if it was too hard to follow, etc.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy birthday, Azura! Consider this a present. Also, so sorry about the wait, everyone. I’d like to say it won’t happen again…but it probably will. I recently got a part-time job, and between it and my college work, I’m kind of swamped. I’ll continue to work on this—I’m too close to the end to not finish—but there’s not gonna be any kind of schedule anymore. Sorry :/

 

“It’s good to see you alive, Haru,” Corrin says. Early morning sunlight filters through the high windows of the throne room, highlighting the stone columns. Dark purple shadows paint the area beneath the eyes of the group of newly-arrived men and women. Despite his malnourished and stiff condition, the ninja still tries to bow, and the king shakes his head. “No, don’t strain yourself. Gods know we can waive formality for the wounded.”

It speaks volumes about how Haru feels that he doesn’t protest, just nods and says, in a hoarse voice, “’ppreciate that, Your Highness.” Between the battle and the harried flight to Elysium, then going straight to the throne room to report to the king, he’s barely had any proper recuperation, and one hasty healing spell isn’t a substitute for good sleep and nourishment.

Servants immediately begin tending to the wounded soldiers, fetching food and healers. In the background, Felicia is moving to Kaze, hugging him with a quiet relief. A slim woman rushes into the room from a side door, eyes widening when she sees Haru, and the king gestures to her. “Your wife came as soon as she received word we’d be attempting a rescue. She’s been staying here for the past week now.”

Akiyama Mieko’s Vallite heritage is clear in her pale blue hair, though her eyes are Hoshidan slate gray. Born mute and weak at birth, she is no warrior, unlike the women of either country, and the one son she’d delivered her husband had, the priestesses informed her, been her last if she wanted to live. She gently takes her husband’s battered face in her hands, mouth pulling down unhappily, and Corrin turns away, feeling like he’s intruding.

His eyes scan the thinned numbers and he sighs. “It didn’t go smoothly, I take it?”

“No.” Kaze shakes his head. “We infiltrated the estate easily enough, but the extraction ran into complications. Guards; I chose to leave half my men and women behind so we could get away.” A hand runs through his blood-clumped hair. “I’d still call it a success, but I wish things had gone differently.”

“Don’t we all?” The albino sighs and clasps Kaze’s shoulder. “You did well. Take the rest of today and tomorrow off.”

“My duties—”

“I can handle them for a bit longer,” Felicia assures him, taking his hand and tugging on it. “C’mon, I’ll get you a nice bath running…”

As she leads her betrothed away, Haru pauses on his way out of the room, supported by his wife. “While I was a ‘guest’, I heard more than just the names of the rebels,” he adds in a raspy voice. “Heard an interesting piece of rumor. Jiro might not be the only leader of this little rebellion.”

Corrin frowns, not liking that news at all. “What do you mean? Who else is in charge?”

He shakes his tired head. “Dunno. There were just some mentions of ‘a woman’. Some foreigner who sometimes drops by the estate. Never saw her myself, but she’s apparently in close with Jiro, so I thought it was worth mentionin’.”

“So it might not necessarily end with him…” He rubs his forehead. “Thank you, Haru. Go to one of the royal healers, you’re on shore leave for as long as he or she says you are. You’ve done fantastic.”

The ninja smiles once, bitter. “Doesn’t feel it.” Lady Meiko shushes him and helps him away.

The room gradually empties, and Corrin exhales and rests his head back against the stone pillar behind him. _Another leader…_ One they don’t know anything about, other than gender. That opens too many questions, makes too many unknowns. Who are this person’s connections, what do they know, where are they? It’s another problem on his too-full plate, and the stress is slowly starting to get to him. He requests one servant call Gunter and Nestor to the war room, and calls another for some tea. A few minutes later a hot cup is placed in his hands. Just from the smell he can tell it isn’t one of Felicia’s brew. He sips it, relishing how it scalds his tongue; the pain is a welcome distraction.

It’s far too early in the morning for this. With a sigh he finishes his tea, places it on the servant’s tray, and makes his way to the war room. It’s only a short distance from the throne room, tucked into a corner of the castle that completely lacks windows.

When he enters, he finds Nestor and Gunter waiting for him, taking opposite sides on the large table. His old mentor had refused to take any sort of official rank, instead insisting his stay is only temporary and that he’ll be on the records as a hired advisor.

Corrin takes a seat at the head. “Good morning, both of you. I’m sorry to disturb your routines…” He knows Nestor’s duties require him to get up at the crack of dawn, and Gunter generally does as well to train. “But Kaze’s group returned from the rescue mission. Successful, though not without losses. I was just informed me there may be another leader of Jiro’s rebellion, and I have to ask: Gunter, did you see anything of the sort during your stay there?”

He frowns, brow furrowed and deep in thought. “I did not, Your Majesty, though I remind you that I arrived late in the night and left early in the morning. I may have missed something.”

“It was worth a shot. If such a leader were to exist, do either of you have any ideas who it could be?”

They spend the next hour engaging in discussions about the nobles, looking over histories, political opinions, proximity to Jiro. But it all comes down to the same point: they just don’t know enough. Lord Jiro is notably racist, and they can’t imagine him ever talking with a Nohrian, nor what a foreign noble would gain from this incursion. They’re talking in circles.

It’s finally Nestor who suggests they might be looking at things wrong. “Perhaps, instead of looking at the highborn, we should be looking at the low.”

Corrin lifts his head. “What do you mean?”

The chamberlain sighs and closes his eyes. “I do not believe I ever told you…most of Valla was killed or enslaved to Anankos. But there were some who bowed, and were allowed to serve him directly. It’s possible they may have been given knowledge of your relation to him, or discovered it himself.”

The albino curses under his breath. He remembers, now, Lilith telling him this very same thing. He’d honestly forgotten about it, hadn’t taken any steps to hunt the agents down. And now it might be coming back to bite him. “And they’d have plenty of motive to want me dead for killing Anankos. Damn…”

“I might be wrong, of course. But we never did tie up that loose end.” _A fool move,_ his eyes say, and Corrin can’t say he’s wrong about that.

“If you are right, my advice,” Gunter says, “would be to wait until Lilith returns and ask her to draw up a list of everyone she knew who served Anankos directly. Names, statuses, skills, the like. We can then begin cross-referencing with what our spies know to rule out as many possibilities. Even if they don’t have a hand in this rebellion, we can at least weed them out before they become a problem.”

Gunter’s gaze is steely as he continues, “Lord Corrin, I can’t stress enough how important it is that when you cut off the head of this snake, you do it thoroughly. Otherwise it’ll just pop up elsewhere.”

He nods grimly—history books in Nohr detail how Queen Tatiana, ‘The Queen of Fools’, had thought to have burned out all those rebelling against her rather _idiotic_ tax increase on alcoholic beverages. Years later, they’d resurged and taken her by surprise, breaking into the castle to kill her and her children—the throne had instead passed to her nephew. He has no intent of meeting a similar fate.

“I shall. Thank you, gentlemen. Dismissed.”

* * *

Several times a week, Azura trains with her retainers. It isn’t just to keep her skills sharp; it’s so they can all learn how the other women fight and create strategies. None of them had battled besides each other in the war, and with civil war upon them, they can’t afford to be lax. They’d learned that Felicia works well with either of them, her aim precise and deadly, with grace that belies her usual clumsiness. It’s Mozu and Azura who have trouble fighting side-by-side; their naginata techniques are just too different and don’t accommodate each other. Azura fights with grand sweeps and spins, while Mozu uses slower, heavier thrusts. It’s a point of contention between them, and they often squabble over whether it’s appropriate for Azura to fight alone on the front or not.

As this sessions winds down and Felicia summons a chilly wind to cool them off, a voice hesitantly calls out. “Um…Lady Azura?”

She spins around in surprise. “Lilith, you’re back. I’ve told you the title can be dropped; we are sisters now.”

The dragon smiles and steps out of the doorway. “Yes, I am, and sorry. I’m trying. Do you know where Lo…where Corrin is?” It seems Azura isn’t the only one she has difficulty addressing without formalities. “I wanted to see him right away, but he wasn’t in the throne room.”

“He should be in his treehouse right about now. I’ll take you to him.” Azura uncrosses her legs and rises from her seat, grimacing at the soreness of her muscles. Lilith frowns.

“Are you sure? I’m sure you have plenty of things you need to do. I don’t want to trouble you…”

“I want to hear what you found as soon as possible. Matters concerning Corrin concern me as well.”

Her sister-in-law nods understandingly. Bidding her retainers farewell, Azura sets off. It only takes her a few minutes to realize that Lilith is dutifully trailing several steps behind her. She glances at her over her shoulder. “You can walk up here, you know. Technically you’re royalty too.”

“Still doesn’t feel like it,” she sighs, adjusting her stride. “When you spend all your life as a soldier, then a servant, you get used to falling in line.”

The conversation pauses, stilted. Azura thinks she ought to try to say something, but she isn’t certain what. Truth be told she hasn’t spoken to Lilith much. “I can’t imagine Anankos would be very good at caring for babies,” she finally attempts.

“I was created fully-grown,” the other woman explains. “He didn’t want to deal with children, and he wanted a personal hitman as soon as possible.” She frowned, taping a finger against her chin. “Hmmm…I suppose that makes me both older and younger than L…than Corrin? How odd.”

Azura snorts in amusement at the paradox. “Speaking of Corrin, I never got to thank you.”

Lilith’s eyebrows rise. “Thank me? What for?”

“Corrin told me that on his first trip to the Bottomless Canyon, he fell in. But you saved him and brought him to the Astral Plane, at cost of your human form. If he’d fallen, he might not have survived his encounter with the Vallites down there.” Azura stops and bows. “So, thank you; I may never have been able to meet and fall in love with him if it weren’t for you.”

She notes with some amusement that Lilith shares Corrin’s pallor and everything that comes with it; her skin is flushed deep red to the tips of her ears, and she fiddles with her braid. “It was no problem. He’s my brother, after all.”

“Still…it’s a long overdue thanks.” They come to a stop before the oak tree in the courtyard; Azura climbs the ladder and knocks on the bottom of the trapdoor. “Corrin? You have a visitor.”

“It’s open!” his muffled voice calls, and she pushes it up.

Inside the treehouse-turned-office, her husband is practically waist-deep in letters; letters from Jakob and Flora, describing the successful sealing of an alliance with Chieftain Kilma; letters from Elise, talking about how worried she is about Ryoma working himself to the bone; letters from the rebels, mocking the notion of ceasing because he asked nicely. A map of Valla spills over the table’s edges, and one of his hands is occupied by marking down notes on it. He’s eating as he works, but Azura can tell he isn’t really focused on the food since, in the few seconds she watches, he keeps missing the piece of fish he’s attempting to stab.

His head lifts at the sound of her entry. Her husband’s face brightens up when he sees her, and then again when he sees who’s with her. Corrin immediately leaps to his feet and makes his way towards them. “Lilith! You’re back!”

“Yes, I am,” the dragon giggles, opening her arms and accepting her brother’s embrace. “You’d think a water dragon like me would have more tolerance for the ocean, but it seems I unfortunately get seasick.”

“You could have just gone through the water.”

“Yes, but I would have felt bad leaving the scholars on their own. Not all of them were Vallite, after all. And there were quite a lot of notes to bring back; we all had a good discussion on the return trip.” Judging from Lilith’s pleased smile, she might have finally found some other friends.

“So the trip was fruitful?” Azura asks.

“Oh, definitely. For one, you aren’t the only half-dragon in history, L…Corrin.” Lilith pulls out a leather notebook from her apron pocket and flips to a specific page before handing it over. “The Rainbow Sage wrote a lot about them, and about creating dragonstones, so you don’t have anything to worry about if you lose yours.”

Azura leans over Corrin’s shoulder as he reads, recognizing her sister-in-law’s messy, spiky handwriting. The page she’d picked out is full of notes on half-dragon biology, life expectancy, and trivia. One phrase leaps out at her: _the dragonstone, while not sufficient for Anankos, is strong enough to suppress the urges of a half-dragon, so long as they rampage when they need to._

A dizzying feeling of relief rushes through her. Corrin, for his part, looks stunned. “I’m going to be fine?”

“As long as you ‘let it out’, when you need to, yes.” Lilith smiles. “Maybe you can go back to the old Valla and rampage there.”

Corrin still seems speechless, so Azura takes charge in his stead. “Thank you, Lilith. This is…wonderful news.”

“It was no problem!” The dragon stretches, putting on a bright smile. “Now, I’m going to go straight to a hot bath.”

As she turns Corrin suddenly calls. “Oh—Lilith, I’m sorry to give you another assignment as soon as you’re back, but can you speak to Gunter or Nestor once you get the chance? There’s an intelligence project they need your help on.”

She raises her eyebrows, but nods. “Of course.”

The door closes behind her, and Corrin takes a shuddering breath, dropping onto his old bed and burying his head in his hands.

“I’m not going to go mad,” he whispers, indescribable emotion in his words. “I’m not going to go mad.”

She sits beside him and rubs his shoulder soothingly, humming an absent tune under her breath. “No. You aren’t. And even if you did, I’d be there to pull you out. Always.”

One of his hands moves to cover hers. “I know you would. But the damage I might do, the cost it might have on you…those things have always worried me. They still do. I hate that you kept that damn pendant for my sake.”

Azura’s hand trails down to her necklace. She shouldn’t be surprised he figured it out; she’s never explicitly said so, but there really weren’t a lot of reasons to keep the cursed thing either. “I’m sorry. I wanted to throw it away, but I realized it’d be foolish when I didn’t know the madness wouldn’t affect you…or any children of ours.”

He blushes slightly, coughs. “I…don’t think we’re ready for those yet.” Then his eyes widen almost comically. “Unless you’re—I mean, that’d be wonderful, but—”

She has to fight back a laugh at how flustered he looks. “No, I’m not. I was just speaking of hypotheticals. And yes, now certainly wouldn’t be the wisest time for children. We haven’t even been married a year, I’d like to enjoy that more.”

“Oh, good. I mean—not that kids would be _bad,_ but—you know what I mean.”

“I do.” She rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes. “I hope that now you can learn to accept that part of yourself.” Corrin had never transformed after that first time, or at least not any longer than he had to on the battlefield. His first experience with his dragon form had turned it into a creature to be feared and hated, in his eyes, and learning of Anankos had done little to help.

His hand unconsciously clenches around the dragonstone, which had somehow found its way into his hand without her noticing. “I’ll try. But even with this, I don’t trust myself to stay in that form longer than necessary.”

“You never will, unless you push yourself to change. That’s something I didn’t learn until you encouraged me to socialize more. I’m much happier now than I was a year ago, thanks to that. I have friends now, outside my family. So, if you want to be more comfortable with that side of you…”

“Stop whining and spend more time in it?” he says wryly.

“I wouldn’t put it like that…but yes.”

She can’t help but smile as lips press against her cheek in silent thanks. “Like I said, I’ll try.”

* * *

Silas pinches the skin between his eyebrows, squinting as he surveys the report in his hands. In the weeks since Haru’s rescue, division has cracked the country; one attack on an iron mine has led to another, and another. The commoners do not have much stake in the civil war—the blasé attitude he’d found odd, even after Mozu explained to him that it isn’t much matter to them who sits on the throne, so long as he or she is a decent ruler, when their most immediate concern is providing for themselves. Most of them seem to like Corrin well enough, he’s been a decent king to them so far, not taxing them badly and focusing on improving their livelihood, and what do they know of dragons and gods? Just that they’re to be feared and revered in equal measures.

It’s a stroke of good luck; the nobles are already split, taking sides, and losing the support of the people would have given the rebels greater numbers. As is he and his men have already been out in the field for weeks, attempting to suppress them. Other regiments have been dispatched to other parts of Valla to do the same, as are the other nobles on Corrin’s side.

They’d just crossed over the repaired Hikawa Bridge, aiming to return to the capital for a bit of shore leave, when their sky knight scouts had reported fighting at the town ahead. The banners, they said, were for Lord Varius and Lady Shizuka.

Upon hearing this, Silas had mobilized the forces Corrin had given him and moved out as swiftly as possible. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend”, as the adage went; while Lady Shizuka had taken a neutral stance on the rebellion, Lord Varius had sided with Lord Jiro. His first move, rather unwisely, had been settling his debts with his personal enemy. This opens an opportunity for them—he’s gambling that by sending aid to Lady Shizuka, despite her neutrality, they can prove that the albino is a worthy king and convince her to throw her lot in with them.

After an hour of hard riding, they’ve broken camp a short distance away from the battlefield, and outside the tent, when the breeze blows just right, he can hear the sounds of screaming and clashing metal. Despite his war experience, Silas is rather new to command. He’s used to following orders, not improvising them. Fortunately, he has an experienced strategist to aid him. Unfortunately, said strategist is rather eccentric.

“Disgraceful, isn’t it?” the redheaded woman across from him sniffs. Heavy, almost garish makeup dusts her eyelids and lips, and her nose wrinkles as she reads her own copy of the report. “I don’t know what’s worse, Lord Varius’s soldiers struggling to overcome a force half their size or the stupidity involved in turning on their proper king.”

“Captain Daniela,” Silas sighs, trying to rein his tone in to be polite even if he can’t help but privately agree with her, “I would prefer if you kept all observations to a strictly professional level. What can you make of the battlefield?”

The sky knight scouts had returned an hour ago, giving their survey of how the battle looked and numbers. A topographical map of the land, with hastily arrayed figurines representing the locations of the armies, lays on the table between him and the redhead. The town is a moderate size, called Nagase, and is responsible for lumber production; most of the surrounding area is appropriately woodland. The battle is taking place outside the town’s gates, on the main road from Hikawa Bridge.

Daniela is Nohrian born and bred—while she obviously dislikes his order, she won’t question the chain of command. She scowls, but obediently leans over to study the map. “This forest here. The sky knights report seeing wagons and medical stations through the trees. It seems to be where Lord Varius’s support and convoys are. They’re using the trees as cover, but their attention is directed on the battle; they won’t be expecting any danger from the rear.”

Silas rests his forearms on his knees. “Our horses will have a hard time moving through the undergrowth.”

“Yes, I know, and if you’d let me _get_ to that…” She huffs. “I was going to say, we split our army. Send our cavalry charging to flank them _here_ —” A painted fingernail taps at the large road. “While our infantry go through the trees to destroy their backlines and, if possible, cut off their retreat.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Silas pushes up and out of his chair. “Tell the mages and archers to not use fire spells and flaming arrows; I’m sure Lady Shizuka would rather we didn’t burn one of her forests down. I’ll tell the cavalry to saddle up.”

Within the hour, their army has split; Silas and Danela lead the cavalry towards the town, while a smaller number of infantry break off for the forest. Lord Varius’s forces number several hundred strong, far more than Nagase’s garrison. From the scout’s reports, the defenders had managed to hold out long enough for their daimyo’s forces to arrive, and now are in a deadlock.

Readying his lance, Silas gives the command for the cavalry to charge. And then there’s no more time to think, just the drumming of his horse’s hooves in his ears, the loud sound of his breathing, the metal in his hand, the way his vision seems to narrow in and focus on the enemy before him, awaiting contact in three, two, one—

His arm shakes from the impact as his lance, buoyed by his steed’s gallop, rips through the first man’s armor like it isn’t even there. The shock and force of the charge threatens to tear it from his grip, but he tightens his hold; the man’s body is torn off with a gruesome _squelch_. Wheeling his mount, Silas leads the first wave of cavalry to the back lines, just in time for the second to crash into the enemy.

It’s a classic Nohrian tactic; send in waves of cavalry as shock troops to surprise and keep the pressure on the opposing army. By the time the last wave is done, the first will be healed and ready to charge again, while the other soldiers will be tired and bloodied. Repeat until either you win, or the formation breaks and the cavalry are drawn into a melee.

Silas is leading his wave in again before the latter happens. Waves three and four have played out in succession; the alarmed enemy have managed to reassemble themselves into something like a front. Their commander must have called together some mages or something, as lightning slams into the second wave, sending horses and people flying. He ducks as a bloody torso flies over his head. The third wave is forced to disengage or fall over the corpses, and the surprise tactic is over. He discards his lance, two people skewered on it like some kind of morbid shish kebab _¸_ and draws his saber. And then he stops noticing details like these as the fight embroils him.

Silas has grown used to fighting with Mozu, the reach of her naginata and yumi felling enemies before they can touch him, or on occasion Corrin and his odd mix of swordplay, magic, and grotesque limb spears. He flounders a bit having to adjust to Daniela instead; her horse can keep pace with his, which is a positive change, and her magic fills a similar position to Mozu and Corrin’s ranged combat. But he’s unused to her attitude, that cockiness causing her to toy with opponents, and he has to compensate by being faster on the kill. That makes him sloppier on defense, and it doesn’t take long before he’s sporting nicks and cuts from the occasional slip-up.

Side-sweep; stab to the left; rear and have his mount strike out with her hooves; downwards slash; parry; stab to the right. The dim of battle thrums in his ears, blocking out all other sound. All that matters is killing the next enemy, and the next, and the next. He briefly registers pain as a killing edge makes its way past his guard and slices open his leg from calf to knee, in a wound more painful than the others; then in a soothing wave of white it fades away at a sweep of Daniela’s staff. He breaks out of the battle-trance long enough to send her a nod of thanks.

Over the forest, he catches sight of a single bolt of lightning firing into the sky; the signal that the soldiers in their have succeeded in their task. Above, a wyvern knight yells, “their back lines are crumpling!” The defenders have pushed forward, and now Lord Varius’s forces are caught in a pincer; cavalry at their back, re-energized infantry at their front, and no aid from their forest division.

But they are desperate, and that fuels them; their fervor ensures the fight drags on for at least another hour before things finally change. Silas isn’t sure; all he knows is that his voice is hoarse from yelling orders and his horse is streaked to the flank in blood when there’s a subtle shift.

“They’re confused,” he murmurs to himself, watching them mill about. Battles are always chaotic, but there’s also always a bit of order to them, strategies and ranks giving some pattern to the madness. But among Lord Varius’s forces, archers are struggling to pick a target to aim at, soldiers are falling out of formation, fliers hover uncertainly. They’ve stopped working together as a unit; someone very high on the chain of command isn’t giving orders anymore.

Daniela realizes this too, for she shouts out, “Their commander has fallen! Push, soldiers of Valla! Show them what happens to traitors!”

It becomes a rout. Rallied successfully, his forces surge forward, and Varius’s breaks, scattering in every direction like mice. It only takes another hour for them to clean up the harried enemy; then there’s a rush of a different kind, as everyone splits off to make camp, get the healers, and clean their weapons and armor.

With a groan and a wince—while his leg was healed, phantom pain still twangs up it—Silas dismounts and looks about. Those who are still able begin to ferry their injured comrades away, back to where the healers have set up stations, or bring the healers down to those too wounded to be moved. Several soldiers start to comb over the battlefield, looking for enemy soldiers still clinging to life; they’ll either be healed and captured or, if their injuries are too severe, put out of their misery.

Daniela trots her horse over and dismounts. “Easy as always,” she smirks, brushing some dirt off her strategist’s robes. Before Silas can respond, a wyvern makes a somewhat clumsy landing a few feet away.

“Field Marshal,” the wyvern rider huffs, his face splattered with blood. “The attack on the caravan was successful; there are still a few soldiers remaining in the forest, but they’re fleeing. Do you give orders to pursue?”

He shakes his head, sweat dripping in his eyes. “No, let them go. Our mission was to aid Lady Shizuka, and we’ve done just that.”

The man gives a tense nod, walking off briskly to tend to inform his squad. “Well,” Daniela says brightly, clapping her hands together. “Time to go assess our losses, though I can’t imagine we had too many with my genius in charge.”

She disappears, and Silas sighs, unscrewing his cantina and taking a long, welcome sip of water. His horse nuzzles him, and he smiles, rummaging around for an apple. As he feeds it to her and quietly murmurs “well done”, his green eyes spot a slender figure making her way towards them.

Apparently Lady Shizuka is a swordmaster; thin, twin blades rest on her hips, and a forest green longcoat trails behind her. The light breastplate on her chest is cracked, splotches of blood tarnishing the metal. She limps slightly, favoring her right leg as she approaches, and Silas instantly hurries to call a healer over.

“Lady Shizuka,” he greets once she stands before him, trying to recall lessons on Hoshidan etiquette. He barely remembers to bow instead of shaking her hand. Automatically the paladin slips into the noble mannerisms ingrained in him since youth. “It pleases me to see you well.”

“Field Marshal Silas,” she answers, bowing back after just a moment of hesitation. The healer he sent for approaches, eyes on the ground, and after only the barest hint of wariness the Hoshidan allows him to patch her up. “Your timing is rather excellent.”

“We owe it to our scouts,” he says humbly, gesturing to where the sky knights are dismounting their pegasi and stroking their manes. “They were the ones who saw your forces and directed us here.”

“They have good eyes.” Her own sweep across them, mouth set in a thin line. “I’m sure you enjoy your position very much, a Nohrian commander swooping in to save a Hoshidan. A Hoshidan who has expressed nothing but distaste for your kind so far, even.”

“I have no such ulterior motive,” Silas corrects. “My only intent is to carry out King Corrin’s will, and that is to protect all Valla’s people, regardless of ethnicity or their personal opinion on him.”

“And I’m sure you don’t intend to also win my allegiance with this gesture as well,” Lady Shizuka smirks.

Silas hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I would be lying if I said I don’t hope you might change your mind, yes. No offense is meant.”

She shakes her head. “Such is the way of politics. You’ve proven your strength, and by extent your king’s, yes…” A predatory grin settles on her face. “And I am rather happy to have captured Lord Varius; he was leading his troops today. I’ll give him credit for not being a coward.”

“Though Varius is rightfully your prisoner of war, I gently remind you that he’s a traitor to the throne, and that King Corrin would be most interested in any information he might have.”

She is silent a moment, tapping her fingers against the pommel of one of her katanas thoughtfully. Her eyes run over him, then the blooded men and women arraying about. She turns away. “I will not make any hasty decisions. However, am not adverse to further discussion of this subject. But first, rest your troops at Nagase for as long as you need. Hospitality is the least I can repay you with for your aid today.”


	13. Chapter 13

 

Like many Nohrian towns in the mountains, Shadowfen’s main export is mostly iron and weapons. What sets it apart from others, however, is that its location is naturally abundant in not just minerals, but in sapphires as well. The initial settlers had quickly made a fortune taking advantage of that bounty, and the town is now rather prosperous. It has no natural bodies of water nearby, instead boasting a huge aqueduct; too high for a Vallite to safely travel through, so when Laurel arrives it is after several day’s steady riding.

Tying her horse at the post outside the inn, she looks about. The mines below and the naturally clean air of the mountains means most of Shadowfen is aboveground, unlike most Nohrian towns. It had been among those given to Valla, and in the nearby streets, the effects of the civil war are apparent. There’s a noticeable lack of men and women of fighting age, conscripted by their ruling lord into militia service. More soldiers than usual are out patrolling, the elderly and the children watching them with looks of gratitude. Some of the buildings miss portions of wall, the wood and stone stripped away for army repairs. The blacksmith’s shop is flourishing, but overworked; piles of newly-made weapons lie behind him as he sweats at the anvil, bringing a hammer down onto a sword. A harried-looking apprentice is handling the coin, passing weapons and armor to customers, and she gets in line.

“What can I get you?” he asks when she steps up. Despite the onset of winter, the heat from the nearby forge generates enough warmth that the man has stripped down to a simple tunic and pants. The blacksmith, who is right next to it and getting the full blast of heat, is completely shirtless.

“I’m actually interested in a forging,” she says softly. “Can I speak with your master?”

He turns and hollers, “Master Berrik! Got a customer interested in a commission!”

The man—Berrik, presumably—glances up and gestures for her to come over. As she approaches, he wipes his forehead with a cloth and sticks the finished blade in a bucket of water before giving her his full attention. Like many smiths, he’s large and burly, and like many Nohrians, he has several scars lining his body. Though he must be in his forties or fifties, his blonde hair and beard show no signs of gray. “Aye?”

“I hear you’re the best blacksmith this side of the Bottomless Canyon.”

“Aye. Ask any soldier in these parts, and they’ll swear up and down on my weapons and armor.”

“Why not move to Elysium, then? Shadowfen is large enough, but distant; you’d make more profit out there.”

He scowls. “’m a true Nohrian, not one of those Hoshidan-lovers. My goods are made for our use, not theirs, and I’d die before rubbing shoulders with ‘em.”

Well, it’s no proclamation of hatred for Corrin, but disagreeing with his policies is good enough. It’s also a good thing she has no intention of telling him who, exactly, will be using his weapon. She nods, and Berrik glares. “Did you want a commission or just to question my business?”

Laurel points at one of the Wyrmslayers hanging from a hook. “Would you have a way to reforge that while keeping the dragon-slaying properties? Say, into a lance?”

His eyebrows rise, the scowl replaced with a look of curiosity. “Aye, but what would you want that for? You’ll have to pay for it twice-over: once for the weapon, once for the reforging. Not to mention wyvern riders wield axes, a lance will do worse against them than a sword.”

She smiles politely. “Not the one I’m going to use it on.”

He doesn’t press the issue further—business is business, after all—and she begins to haggle with him, unused skills returning like muscle memory. She suddenly recalls something her father always taught her: _laugh and joke and be friendly, they’re more likely to cut the price, just a bit, for someone nice and charming._

She cannot remember the last time she did any of that. Anankos had no use for nice and charming servants, only strong ones or clever ones. She had been a merchant’s daughter, not strong at all, so she had to be the latter, or she would have been dead.

It had served her well, earned her a position in King Garon’s castle. Not high enough to really influence anything, but enough to spy, pass the word along. And when the time had been right, Anankos had sent in Iago, slain and replaced King Garon, and from then on Nohr had been his.

Gold trades hands, and Laurel thanks the blacksmith. He estimates the lance will be ready in two weeks, so she resigns herself to staying here for some time; there’s no point in leaving and then immediately turning back around. Perhaps she can turn Shadowfen against Corrin.

She helped dethrone one king. It will not be so hard to repeat that achievement.

* * *

 _The stenches of smoke, fire and blood fill the air. Screams and the sounds of battle pulse in his ears as Nestor dances nimbly backwards, barely avoiding a sword swipe. His opponent lets out an animalistic growl as the weapon sticks in the wall, trying to yank it free. He flicks his wrist, and his dagger catches this—this_ thing _between the eyes. With one last gurgle, it dissolves into water._

_There’s no time to relax, or even fetch his weapon. Pulling out another, the steward surveys the halls grimly. Staying behind to fight these monsters while Queen Arete ran to get her sister was the right move, he knows. But now he has no way to know whether they’ve actually escaped. He can only hope their retainers are doing a good job of guarding them as he seeks his family. Escape is the only thing they can do now; Queen Arete had ordered that they don’t stay any longer than necessary to fight Anankos. But it still feels like a betrayal._

_He creeps down the hall towards his wife and children’s rooms, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Softly, a boot scrapes against the floor somewhere, and Nestor stills. Cocks his head and listens. Then barely jumps back in time to avoid a javelin to the heart. It whistles through the air as it passes, catches on his sleeve, ripping the material and drawing a line of blood on one arm._

_He turns. “You think you frighten me?” he spits at the pair of knights, one already drawing a new javelin._

_Nestor’s not a fool; he knows their armor is far too thick for his puny knives to pierce, and aiming at the thin gaps between the plates is difficult when they’re both focused on him. He puts up his best fight, using their lack of mobility to his advantage, darting ahead of them. But eventually, he slips in a pool of blood and falls to the floor, his weapon tumbling out of his hand. It lies far beyond his reach, useless as the undead things leans over him._

_Nestor grimaces, awaiting the death blow. But, to his surprise and mild disturbance, one of the soldier grabs his arm. He shivers at the slimy feel of rotting flesh against his skin as it pulls him up, dragging him down the hall; he doesn’t know where the other goes. Nestor struggles not to throw up as they pass by corpses of people he knew. Satsu, the stablemaster; Calliope, the Princess Azura’s nanny; Michio, the head cook… The sight of Bria, his daughter, almost unrecognizable with half her head caved in from a hammer’s blow, sends an arrow into his heart, and he sobs._

_The soldier is uncaring. The soldier is unrelenting. Sparing no pity for a mourning father, it almost yanks his arm out of its socket as it forces him ever onward._

_A distant part of Nestor recognizes the doors to the throne room, swinging open as the soldier steps forward. Inside it is a disaster—pillars lie broken on the ground, and the Rheos family banner is torn into shreds above the throne. His heart leaps in his throat when he sees other people, kneeling on the floor, weapons pointed at the back of their heads; beseechingly, he searches for his wife or son’s faces. He does not find them. He does not know whether that is a good thing or not._

_The ceiling is completely torn off, exposing them to the elements. It has just started to rain, orming pools of water on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye Nestor spots one shimmer, the tell-tale sign of a Vallite about to step through._

_His face pales when he sees the man who emerges. King Theophilus, still clad in the clothes he’d worn on that awful day—he’d fully trusted Anankos, had seen no need to wear armor when going to speak to a friend. All it got him was death; the armor of his breastplate is cracked, his face is mottled with bruises, his crown is missing, and his eyes glow the same hellish purple as all these abominations. But it is undeniably him. His horse paws at the tile and snorts, fur ragged and falling off, almost skeletal._

_“People of Valla,” King Theophilus speaks, sitting straight in his saddle. He doesn’t need to ask for silence—everyone had fallen ghastly quiet upon seeing him. “People of Gyges Castle…once you served me in life, and you served me well. But I was the wrong king for Valla. Humans were never meant to rule. We should have stayed crawling in the mud, serving our betters, the dragons, and yet we became prideful. We dared reach above our station. But King Anankos has opened my eyes, and now he and I come to return the world to as it should be._

_“I extend you the same offer. Kneel before your rightful king, and return the world to dragons.”_

_Some of them look aghast. But to Nestor’s disturbance, not all, and even a few seem like they might be considering it. The captain of the guard, Atreus, bold soul that he is, surges to his feet. “Never!” He shouts._

_The king raises a hand, dark energy swirling around his fingers. It coalesces, then fires out in a beam that pierces the other man’s chest. He falls backward, face still frozen in a defiant expression, killed before he could even comprehend what was happening._

_Screams fill the room as Atreus stirs and sits up, eyes a ghastly purple. Nestor cannot. His voice has long since left him._

_“Let me rephrase.” King Theophilus’s gaze sweeps coldly across them. “You_ will _serve King Anankos. Your only choice is how much of your freedom you retain in doing so. Bow now, serve him however he demands, and be allowed the right to live in some comfort. Or resist and slave away in hell._

_“Those are your only options.”_

He starts awake, heart hammering in his chest. The canopy of his bed greets him, morning sunlight dancing through the window to his left. Dragging a hand over his face, Nestor shakes off the last vestiges of the memory-dream-nightmare as he slowly sits up.

More than twenty years, and he can still recall that day, clear as crystal.

It had easily been the worst day of his life; to look about as everything you cared for burned to ashes, to watch someone you once served and respected help the enemy. He knew it wasn’t King Theophilus’s fault, but that hadn’t eased the horror clogging his throat, at seeing him among their conquerors.

The king had fallen, thankfully, to King Corrin’s invading army, hopefully gaining the rightful rest he deserved. Many of the agents had died too, killed by Anankos and resurrected as fodder to try and slow the advancing Hoshidan-Nohrian forces. He only knew because the agents in charge of the slaves’ livelihood had shown up one day as walking corpses, and then one day stopped showing up at all. It had been the first time in twenty years he hadn’t been forced to help make weapons and armor for that monster.

He can still picture the faces of those who’d taken the king’s offer; not many, but each betrayal had felt like a whip’s lash. At the time he’d hated them, called them cowards for bending their knee to a dragon, yet…is he not doing the same?

It isn’t hypocrisy, he tries to tell himself. The king is Princess Mikoto’s son and husband of the heir, Queen Azura; he has a rightful claim to the throne by blood and marriage. Anankos had been a usurper, deceiving his way into the royal family’s hearts before stabbing them in the back.

But the core of it is the same. A dragon once again sits on Valla’s throne. He does believe King Corrin to be a good man, and that he honestly wants to serve Valla well. But some things just can’t be helped or changed, and a person’s nature is one of them.

The memory of Anankos’s conquest, of corpses walking and the land tearing itself apart, flashes through his mind’s eye again. Involuntarily he shudders.

Is he willing to take the chance of that happening again?

 _What am I supposed to do_? He’s only ever wanted what’s best for his country and his people.

His day will be spent going over the living agents with Gunter and _her_ again, though there isn’t much else to do. _She_ has used her artistic skills to recreate likenesses of the survivors, passing them to their spies, but Valla is enormous; searching for them is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Their diviners are scrying for the few remaining female agents, but until they locate them there isn't much to do but wait.

As he begins pulling on his clothes, his hand brushes across a piece of paper, folded neatly in the pocket of his doublet. Puzzled, he extracts it and turns it over. “Hm? What’s this?”

A few minutes later, he’s done reading, and the letter burns itself up automatically—Hoshidan seals really can do anything, it seems. But the words are emblazoned in his mind, and for quite some time he just sits on his bed, head bowed and praying to gods he no longer believes in for wisdom.

* * *

It isn’t often that Corrin can spare the time away from the castle, but he does try to reserve some. For his own sanity, if nothing else—and since Lilith’s return, that has become a very literal meaning.

A small part of him wonders why he’s never wet when he emerges from the water-travel. The rest of him is distracted by the setting, on-guard and searching for nearby enemies. The last time he was here they could pop out of nowhere, and some even wore the faces of children. Anthony was a learning experience, and he isn’t going to be that foolish again, whatever his siblings say.

His red gaze flicks around. The old Valla is exactly as bad as he remembers; huge chunks of land tossed into the air, buildings fallen into rubble, grass scorched by battle and trampled by his invading forces. Nearby is a forest, and he drifts over to it, looking about. Like the open area, it’s completely silent and devoid of life. No one will be hurt if he lets himself go here.

Still, he is hesitant. He has never entered his dragon form outside of battle, and in battle only for the shortest amount of time possible. It had been difficult, sometimes, to maintain his grip on his senses, and the fact that only one small stone stops him from becoming a mindless beast entirely did not assuage his worries at all.

 _No one is here,_ he reminds himself, _and Lilith said you shouldn’t repress those urges._ The itch in his skin has been slowly building since the war ended, and it’s almost impossible to ignore. With a deep breath, he taps into his innate power, feeling his form twist and shift in response.

The world is very different through the eyes of a dragon. Slightly smaller, for one, he’s as tall as a horse at the shoulder, and his neck is long and craning. Louder, too. The hard, armor-like membrane protecting his eyes gives everything a dark blue tinge. Sharp smells, a thousand times stronger than when he was human, batter his olfactory sense—wood, smoke, rot, moss, rain, mildew, himself. Even the air has a scent, chill and brisk with winter.

But the most drastic change is mental. Here, his draconic instincts, once shoved to a distant corner of his mind, simmer just below the surface. All the emotions he’s been feeling, all the anger and frustration and fear and sorrow, rebound off those instincts and are channeled into a sole urge to _destroy._

And here, free from any innocents or allies who could get caught in it, he indulges.

A tree, as thick as his body, splinters beneath his claws. Ducking his head, he roars and then charges into another, his horns easily piercing the bark. Sap drips like blood onto the ground. His tail lashes out, knocking over a boulder. It feels _so good,_ to let everything out like this, to not have to worry about the responsibilities of king and brother and husband anymore, and his human mind melts away completely.

He doesn’t know how much times passes before the haze wears off. But slowly, he becomes aware that the urge to rampage is receding; the dragon is sated. Concentrating, he wills it to retreat to his dragonstone, and in a flash of light changes back.

Corrin looks about at the wreckage in silence. Almost a dozen trees knocked over, a few savaged to nothing; several large rocks reduced to rubble; large furrows in the ground, shaped exactly like his claws.

The power at his fingertips is frightening, and he can’t blame the rebels for being afraid of it.

“I won’t go mad,” he repeats to himself, and almost jumps out of his skin when he hears someone reply, “No, you won’t.”

He spins, hand going for Yato, and then relaxes when he spots his sister stepping out of a pool, brushing her skirt off. “Lilith. What are you doing here?”

“I just thought I’d see how you were doing.” Her golden eyes trail across the destruction left in his wake, and she smiles sympathetically. “I didn’t want you to start getting mopey and self-hating when you were done rampaging.”

He grumbles wordlessly, since that is pretty much what he’d started to do. _Sisters…_ “Have you ever struggled with this?”

“I’m no stranger to self-hate,” she tries to joke.

Corrin snorts despite himself. “That’s not what I meant.”

She sighs, pulling out her own dragonstone and gazing at it. “No. Perhaps it’s because I was made, not born, but I’ve always had perfect control of myself; I’ve never really felt the same urge to destroy as other dragons do. I’ve always been…something that doesn’t quite fit in.”

“You fit in here.”

Her lips pulled into a smile. “I’m just starting to believe that.”

* * *

Winter in Nohr begins early, even in the southernmost parts; the wind lashing his face is cold, cruel, and relentless. Several inches of snow cover the ground, no longer pristine white but blood red. Lord Adrien Chalon’s voice is hoarse from yelling orders, and the warrior in him itches to join in the fight taking place. But the stump of his hand resting on his hip, the ghost of his fingers, prevents him. He had been an archer once, and archers cannot shoot with one hand. He can still ride his horse, and draw his sword and defend himself, but no more than that. All he can offer is his tactical prowess and his presence to rally moral, pacing on the battlements and surveying the battle below.

“Fighters, strengthen your left flank! Knights, fall back, they’re bringing up spellcasters! Isolde!” The woman, head of a mercenary company he constantly contracts, turns and glances up. “You and your company engage the diviners and their guards!”

She nods and moves out, and Adrien’s head swivels, searching for the next order of business. “Captain Gerard!” he shouts, spotting his captain of the guard perched dangerously atop the wall itself, expertly placing arrows in Hoshidan soldiers. The dark-skinned man glances over, swaying aside and dodging a return arrow almost as an afterthought. Leaping down, he joins Adrien’s side, his eyes alight with battle fervor and blonde hair dusted with snow.

“Yes, Lord Adrien?”

“Any word on whether our messengers got away?” Unfortunately, his family isn’t prominent enough to have their own wyvern knights; they’d lost a significant amount of favor after Silas’s stunt with sneaking the prince out as a child. He’s lucky to have a wall around his estate as is.

“Most of them were shot off their horses, but one broke through their lines and escaped.”

“That’s good, that—they’re bringing in a battering ram! Isolde, you and your men fall back! Mages, climb the ramparts and burn it from above!” he roars, warrior’s lungs ensuring his voice carries even over the din of battle. Below, people scramble to comply with his orders. “Archers, give them cover fire!”

Turning back, he continues, “Realistically, how soon can we expect aid?”

The archer hesitates. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she’ll make it fast enough to save us. Between the distance to Elysium, the snow, and how difficult it’ll be to mobilize any sort of rescuing forces in time…it’s just not feasible.”

The battering ram crashes into the gates, a _boom_ reverberating through the air. Wood cracks and splinters. The mages are chanting, sending fire onto it, but it must be enchanted; the flames won’t catch. Adrien grimaces as a soldier scrambles up to him. “They’ve taken out our archers on the eastern wall! Their fliers are ferrying people over, we’re getting overwhelmed!”

“Fighters, fortify the eastern wall!” They move, and Adrien sighs, using his single hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. The situation is quickly spiraling out of control, and he’s been in enough battles to know where this one is headed.

For a moment, his thoughts drift to Renata, to Silas. To more peaceful times.

“My lord?” Gerard prompts quietly, sensing the direction his thoughts are taking. A few heads turn, watching their commander nervously for signs of weakness, and he forces a boastful laugh.

“I think it’s time we stopped going easy on them! Push forth, warriors of Nohr and Valla! Show those yellow-bellied Hoshidans how _real_ men and women fight!”

They cheer, vigor renewed, and he ushers Gerard aside. “They’re going to overwhelm us, and we aren’t going to get help in time. I should have sent messengers as soon as we saw the rebels on our lands,” he admits grudgingly. “But I quaked at the thought of asking for aid from my own son.” His fool pride always did get him into trouble; the absence of his hand was testimony to that. Renata would always remind him that all it took to end his career was a single bandit whenever he started to get too mule-headed. _She’ll be livid with me for this…_

“What do you want to do, then?”

He closes his eyes. “Have all remaining cavalry gather up the noncombatants and flee to Elysium. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

“Not to question your judgment, Lord Adrien,” Gerard says drily, speaking in a tone that clearly conveys the opposite, “but it’s snowing heavily, and there’s probably more on the way. Wouldn’t it be safer for them to stay here? Surely their commander…”

“Our scouts got a look at him.” Adrien looks out over the battlefield. If he strains his eyes hard enough he can just barely make out the banner, red with the insignia of a gray hawk. “Matsumoto Haitaka… From what I’ve heard, he despises Nohrians even more than usual. He would go against Queen Mikoto’s orders and lead strike teams into our country, raiding and pillaging before ducking back behind that damned barrier. I don’t trust him to show mercy to noncombatants.” At least his wife isn’t here; she’s at court in Elysium with his to-be daughter-in-law and son.

Gerard’s lips thin. “Will you not go with them, my lord?”

He glares. “I’m the father of the king’s right-hand man; I have worth as a political hostage. Once the noncombatants are far enough, I’ll bargain myself for the remaining lives of our soldiers.”

“Then,” Gerard says, nocking another arrow, “I will give the orders, and stay to fight for you until the end.”

* * *

A _clang_ reverberates through the air as he catches his opponent’s club with the shaft of his naginata. Jiro winces at the vibrations travel up and down his arms, but braces himself. Pushing forth with all his strength, he sends the other stumbling back, temporarily rendering him off-balance. Spotting an opportunity, Jiro lunges forward.

The Akiyama soldier lets out a gurgle as the naginata sinks into his stomach, crumpling to his knees as the blade is withdrawn with a _shluck._ Still, he manages a defiant glare. “Traitor…”

“You help Nohrians by siding with the king,” Jiro snaps. “You betray everything King Sumeragi and Queen Mikoto stood for. You betray the thousands of our countrymen who died at their hands!”

He stabs the man in the head, silencing him before he can retaliate. Scowling, Jiro looks around. The last of the Akiyama’s forces are being driven back, retreating over the walls and through the open gate. It’s a short relief, he knows; they still have plenty of men and women left, and even now their commanders are probably whispering, planning their next wave. His estate is still rebuilding from the king’s ninja’s attack; many of those who’d stayed behind had committed suicide, turning themselves into living bombs with explosives. Their defenses are thin.

From the corner of his eye he spots one diviner raising his hands, probably a last, desperate attempt to take him down. Scoffing, he raises his naginata and prepares to cross the distance, only for the man to fall over dead, the tip of a dagger protruding from his chest. Jiro lowers his weapon as the corpse falls, revealing Laurel. The Vallite wipes the blood off her weapon and slips it back into her cloak.

“Where were you?” he demands. Dawn Dragon knows where she’s been these past few weeks, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his supposed co-conspirator. Not even messenger hawks could find her. Suspicion and paranoia whisper to him of treason. _Never trust a foreigner…_

“Running an errand.” She steps over the corpse and looks about. “You seem to be doing well…for now. Certainly better than the last time this place was attacked.”

“I’ve been under siege for three days,” he grumbles. “I don’t need your condescension.”

“If you’d done a better job guarding your prisoner, the Akiyamas would still be neutral and you wouldn’t be in this position right now.”

Jiro glares. He hasn’t gotten any proper sleep in a while, the sounds of battle cutting through the blanket of his dreams, and it’s making him testy. “Did you come here just to be smart?”

“No, I came to bring you something to help with our regicide.” He only now notices the wrapped bundle tucked under an arm. She carefully hands it to him, and he unwraps it. “It took the smith I commissioned some time to finish, so—”

“This is a _Nohrian_ weapon,” he hisses, seeing the foreign shape of the spear, the odd, short tip, ugly and completely unlike the graceful blade of a naginata. It glints a deep, bloody crimson in the sunlight.

Exasperation crosses her face. “And you have Nohrian allies. You already use them as a tool, this is no different. It has the same properties as a wyrmslayer, so it’ll be efficient against the king without sacrificing your weapon proficiency.”

His beady eyes examine it again. He may hate the makers, but Jiro can tell when a weapon is finely-made, and this is among the best. Grudgingly, he nods and adds it to the sling on his back. “Fine. From my correspondence with the other lords, their naval fleets are assembled. Once we’ve finished up here, it’ll be an opportune time to—”

 “Lord Jiro!” A pegasus knight lands and dismounts, running over. She pulls off her helmet and tosses it aside, revealing her sweaty face. “Reinforcements from Lady Shizuka approaching from the north!”

He scowls, disliking the vagueness of that. “For us or them? That’s a rather important detail, wouldn’t you say?”

“For—for the Akiyamas, my lord, my apologies...”

Well, that settles that then. He’d hoped that Nohrian lord Varius would have been able to neutralize her forces successfully—that had been the price for his joining in the rebellion, that he be allowed to remove his rival. Jiro had been loathe to side with a Nohrian over a good, pure Hoshidan, but he knew Lady Shizuka was the type to stay neutral in conflict, to hold her cards close to her chest, and that he wouldn’t have any hope of swaying her. So he’d agreed. Leave it to one of those illiterate barbarians to muck even a simple battle up.

They aren’t as ready as he’d hoped—he’d wanted to have the bulk of their land forces mobilized first, and he really would not rather have the Akiyamas at his tail. But he cannot—he _cannot_ —be caught here. He turns to Laurel demandingly. “You were in Nohr. Did you hear anything about whether the Chalons have been dealt with?”

“I heard rumors around town that General Haitaka had taken their estate,” she nods. “Lord Adrien Chalon is his prisoner. With some luck we can use that to turn his son against the king, or at the very least draw him away in a rescue attempt.”

“Then we leave,” he says. “Get my wife and sons, and half our remaining men. We’ll set for Port Nato. The other half, stay long enough to make them think we’re putting up a good fight, then disengage and rendezvous with us there.”

A flicker of discontent crosses the scout’s face—it is bad form for the leader of the army to _withdraw_ while others stay behind—but she quickly pulls it back into a mask of obedience. “As you command, Lord Jiro.”

“Oh,” he adds as she turns to leave. “See if you can lure as many into the estate as you can, then set it aflame. I don’t want to leave them even a scrap of food or shelter.”

“Are you sure, Lord Jiro? This has been in your family for generation, its your inheritance…”

He waves a hand. “What does one destroyed estate matter? Soon enough I’ll have a whole castle.” It’s a shame, but sometimes losing a battle is necessary to win the war. Besides, between the previous attack and this one, it was going to be so wrecked that it would takes months to fully repair, if not longer. It isn’t worth it, not when he has bigger and better things in his future.

“We set sail for Elysium, men and women, to dethrone the false king!” he yells. “For the glory of Hoshido!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The weapon Laurel asks for is a Dragonpike; it doesn’t actually exist in Fates, but it’s been a part of past Fire Emblem games, and there’s really no reason it can’t be made. I don’t know if two weeks is the right time for a lance to be forged, all my research turned up was that swords were usually made in that timespan. So I just stuck with that.
> 
> Corrin needing to rampage once in a while is taken from Nah’s supports with the female Avatar. The eyes on his dragon form being covered by that blue shell thing is entirely my headcanon, though.
> 
> Haitaka is the capturable boss in Conquest Chapter 9, the leader of the rebels who capture and try to execute Azura. Given what little we know about him it made sense to me that he was particularly extremist even for a Hoshidan, so he’d never let a ‘Nohrian’ stay on the throne.
> 
> Also, I apologize again for the lateness of this; I still really hate writing battles. And guess what next chapter is? But I’m determined to push through and see this fic to the end.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Man, one more chapter and then the epilogue (I think). Hard to believe we’re getting close to the end of this. Even harder to believe Shadows of Valentia comes out tomorrow and MAN am I excited! Had to get this chapter out before it because I knew I wouldn’t otherwise.
> 
> Hope y’all enjoy this chapter, it was another enormous battle I hated writing, but some of the foreshadowing I’ve been building up to finally pays off…

 

 Galen Eliasson yawns, wishing he had a warm cup of tea to stave off the cold. As harbormaster of Elysium, his day begins well before the sun’s rays can chase away the winter chill, overseeing the various ships as they come and go. It’s a suitable task for a man his age, and the salty smell of the ocean comforts him—Vallites always have felt more at home around water. Whistling a jaunty tune under his breath, he offers a wave to some of the fishermen as they pass.

The Vallite had just reached his office doors when he pauses, squinting at the horizon. Adjusting his monocle, he pulls out a pocket telescope and raises it to eye level. Through its magnifying lenses, he can see that the approaching vessels are an odd mix of Nohrian and Hoshidan make. They fly no flag, and he frowns, one hand straying towards the alarm horn hanging off his belt. He doesn’t recall a fleet that big being scheduled to come in today.

“Let them dock, Galen.”

He turns, seeing the familiar worn face of Nestor. Galen had always liked the other man; he’d done a good job of leading them when they’d been slaves, ensuring the young ‘uns and the older folk got to eat first. Galen has no doubt all his grandchildren are still alive thanks to him. “Mornin’, Nestor. Chilly, innit? You sure those ships are allowed? Don’t think they were on the schedule today.”

He reaches into his pocket, extracting a crumpled piece of paper, and scans it rapidly. “Yeah…nothin’ here mentions a Nohrian-Hoshidan fleet was due to dock today.”

Nestor’s face was shadowed heavily. “The king requested they come. He’s called several of his allies in for a meeting about what to do with the rebels, and the roads aren’t safe enough anymore. I thought I told you about it?”

Pulling off his cap, Galen scratches his bald head. “Don’t recall ever getting any word of that. But then again, we just had to let our old messenger go, and the new one’s still losin’ things and getting’ others mixed up. Your note probably ended up halfway across the city!”

The steward doesn’t laugh. His gaze is still fixed on the approaching vessels. He really should get some more sleep, Galen thinks; he looks _exhausted._ “Must have.”

* * *

No alarms sound, no fliers and enemy ships move to intercept them, and Jiro smirks, watching the sluice gates open.

“Well,” he says to Laurel, “I suppose you were right after all.”

They’d had a backup plan, of course, in case whoever Laurel had contacted hadn’t come through; she’d have dived off the boat, water-travelled to the inside of the city, assassinated the harbormaster, and opened the sluice gates herself. But it’s much more convenient this way. They won’t have to fight their way to land; by the time Elysium realizes they aren’t supposed to be there, they’ll have already docked.

“Reading people is a useful skill,” she says simply. “If you can read them, you can push the right buttons, and have them doing what you want.”

They’ve practiced this enough times that he doesn’t need to give the order. Well before they’ve docked, the soldiers have all gone below deck, except for a few archers, hiding in the shadows. Jiro hangs at the back of the deck, watching the harbormaster stride up the plank. He’s an older gentleman, with clothes stained by saltwater and a well-worn blue cap. He’s not paying them much mind, muttering to himself as he jots something down on the papers in hand.

The harbormaster finally glances up, and his eyes widen with recognition when he sees Jiro. His hand goes for the horn at his waist, but an arrow flies and plants itself in his throat. With a gurgle, he falls backwards, dead. The papers fly out of his hands; slowly, they drift to the ground and land in a pool of blood, where they soak through with red.

“Nicely done,” Laurel says. “Now—”

She stops as a pair of katanas cross her throat. Her green eyes narrow, going cold. “What is this?”

“There’s been a change in plans,” Jiro tells her. “You’ll be staying here, under guard. I can’t take the risk this isn’t just some massive play you have, where you stab me in the back and end my little coup to earn pardon for your service to Anankos.”

Briefly, her eyes widen. “How did—”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t go looking into your history?” he scolds. “Or maybe that I wouldn’t find anything? I’ve seen those posters for the wanted agents the king’s been sending about, including yours; it was easy to piece it all together after that.”

Her hand darts for one of her daggers, but he’s already gestured to one of the samurai; the flat of the blade slams into her head, and she crumples. Picking her up lack a sack of flour, the soldiers nod and head below deck, where they will stay until the battle is over. It’s probably be safer to kill her, but she has done him a great service so far; at the very least she deserves a proper investigation and a trial. Once the king is disposed of he’ll decide what to do.

They disembark. Laurel’s contact is waiting at the shore, his hands clenched into fists. “You didn’t have to kill him,” he says quietly, admonishing. It takes Jiro a moment to remember who he’s talking about—the harbormaster. He scoffs at the nerve, to think to lecture him.

“I certainly wasn’t going to let him warn everyone we’re here.”

“There are other, less violent ways—”

“You don’t have any room to judge me, considering you’re helping us,” the Hoshidan noble snaps, fed up with the backtalk from a lowly servant.

The old man scowls, a brief flicker of doubt and self-loathing flitting across his features. “I suppose this is the moment I outlive my usefulness, then?”

“Oh no,” Jiro says pleasantly. “You know this city far better than we do, after all…”

* * *

Corrin is torn out of a very pleasant dream involving himself, Azura and a waterfall by the sound of a loud crash. He jerks awake, grimacing as he bumps his nose against his wife’s chin; she moans in discomfort, golden eyes blearily opening. He squints around his room, trying to find the noise’s source in the darkness. Seeing nothing, he shrugs and rolls over to go back to sleep.

The door slams open. “Lord Corrin!” Kaze shouts. “We’re under attack!”

In his half-awake state, the words seem to lose all meaning, melting away. “What?” he mumbles dumbly, muffled by his pillow.

“The rebels—they’ve made it into the city somehow!”

That wakes him up. He tunes out the rest of what Kaze’s saying, quickly throwing off the covers and striding to the window. Corrin pulls the curtain open and stares; Castle Avalon is situated at the top of a hill above Elysium, affording a generous view of the city, meaning he can perfectly see the smoke and fires. The wind briefly shifts, letting him hear clashing metal and shouts for just a moment.

“How did they even get in?” he asks blankly. The walls around the city are supposed to be so fortified nothing short of siege weaponry would get through, and he would surely have heard _that_ —

“By ship, I think,” the ninja answers. “The attack started at the docks.”

 _But how were they allowed to dock?_ It doesn’t matter right now, he decides. “This would happen while Silas is away…” Corrin curses. His friend had begged to be allowed to ride to his father’s rescue after hearing the news of the Chalon Estate’s fall, and he’d granted it. Silas had taken a quarter of their soldiers and left just last week.

Sleepiness forgotten, he throws a shirt on and heads to his armor stand, putting on the pieces as quickly as he can. “How bad is it, Kaze?”

“Gunter’s taken emergency charge in Silas’s absence,” he recites quickly. “He and Lady Lilith have both taken soldiers down to fight the rebels. The docks are completely in rebel hands, and part of the marketplace is burning—something caught on one of the cloth merchants’ stalls and quickly spread.”

“Is there someone trying to put that out?” he demands. For a moment, Nestra rises up in his minds’ eye, burning beneath Anankos’s soldiers, and he hides his instinctive shudder. No. He won’t let that happen again. Not to Elysium.

“Felicia was just on her way, with some mages and guards.” For a brief moment, fear for his betrothed flickers in Kaze’s eyes. “She says she thinks her powers can smother the flames, or at least temper them.”

“I don’t think that’s how snow works,” Azura frowns, slipping up beside Corrin. She’s dressed without him noticing, and her face is drawn with worry. The sun is only just starting to rise, and her eyes look very large and luminous as they reflect the dawn.

“The Ice Tribe’s powers are different,” he reassures her. “Magical in nature. Unless it’s also a magical fire, they should work.” He hopes.

“Still, the citizens will need a safe place to hide from the fighting,” his wife says. “I’ll grab Mozu and head towards Felicia’s location. We’ll assist with putting out the fires and ushering the civilians to the castle.”

“Your Highness,” Kaze tries to argue, “You shouldn’t risk yourself—”

She looks him straight in the eye. “One of my friends is down there…no, Gunter and Lilith are down there too. And my people. I won’t abandon them. I did not hide during the war and I certainly will not hide now.”

“Neither will I,” Corrin interjects, predicting the ninja’s response. The green-haired man sighs, and the half-dragon grins. “Did you really think either of us would stay back?”

He shrugs wryly. “No, but as your retainer I had to try to keep you safe. In truth, I’m glad Felicia won’t be alone down there. I’d go myself, but I can’t find Nestor and there’s no one else left to run the castle’s defense.”

 _Nestor isn’t here? Odd._ “Alright. Dispatch a runner to look for him and prepare some soldiers for me. I’ll take them down into the city and assist Gunter and my sister.”

As the ninja runs off, Corrin feels a cool hand on his cheek, turning his face. Azura rises up and presses her lips to his in a brief kiss—there’s no time for any long, formal goodbyes. “You stay safe, alright?”

Corrin smiles against her mouth and runs his hands along her sides soothingly. “You as well.”

* * *

Wheeling his mount, he brings his axe around and through the neck of the lancer basara attempting to flank him. As blood splatters onto his face, Gunter jerks the weapon out and surveys the battlefield.

He has been fighting ever since the first alarm bell went out, an hour ago. But by then the invaders had already made their way deep into the city. Lady Lilith had led her troops south towards the docks, while he’d stayed to fight around the north gate, which lead out of Elysium to Castle Avalon. It was a wise move, as the fervor in which these soldiers fight suggests their goal was the throne.

They are outnumbered—part of their own forces had been split off by Lord Silas to try and rescue his noble father. They also have a disadvantage in attempting to deal as little collateral damage as possible, while the invaders don’t care at all about that. Some of the citizens are bravely attempting to contribute, throwing vases or dumping chamberpots onto the soldiers below, though most have the sense to stay indoors.

Off to one side, he spots a diviner chanting, magic swirling around him. The distance between them is too great for him to cross in time, and Gunter is bracing himself for the shock of the spell when, in a flash of black and gold, the diviner is cut down.

The king wipes the blood off Yato with his cloak and meets Gunter’s gaze, a crooked smile on his face. “How’re you holding up?”

“Well, my lord.” Reinforcements are streaming onto the battlefield, and the unexpected bolster has the attackers fall back, regrouping. Gunter takes the opportunity to wipe the blood out of his eyes. “I believe I spotted Lord Jiro at the start of the battle, fighting amongst his soldiers; I haven’t seen him since.”

“But he’s here, which means we can end this all if we capture him.” Corrin’s eyes gleam with his usual optimism, and Gunter’s heart sinks at what he must say next.

“Some of the fliers reported seeing a man in the back who appears similar to Nestor.”

The albino recoils, shock and hurt flashing on his face. “What?!”

“I like the thought no more than you, but it would explain much. How they got in, how they know the streets—”

Corrin shakes his head. “No.”

“My lord—”

“No, listen!” He stops, takes a shaky breath. “Looking at everything, it seems…plausible. But we don’t know the whole situation. Perhaps he’s being forced, somehow, with hostages.” It’s half-hearted, as if even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying.

Gunter humors him—he’s in no position to throw stones, after all, and maybe Nestor really is being coerced. “Perhaps. But we won’t find out until the battle is won.”

Resolve hardens his foster son’s face, and Gunter can practically see him locking all his worries into that box in the back of his mind. “Yes, you’re right.” They both turn as a horn rings out; the next wave is preparing to charge. Corrin sinks into a battle stance and glances at Gunter. “Will you follow me into the fray?”

His horse whinnies and paws at the earth, and a grim smile crosses his face. “Anankos could come back right now, and he wouldn’t stop me.”

* * *

The flames before her roar, a blast of heat sweeping over her face. Sweat pours down her brow and into her eyes as Felicia grits her teeth, pushing the ice forward with all her might. Cold winds whip around her; snow flurries dance in the air and catch the light of the fire, turning red-gold.

For a moment, she thinks it must be a beautiful sight, fire burning among the snow like this.

Then common sense reasserts itself and she shakes the thought away. Right now, she has a job to focus on; she can’t afford to dally on pretty things. Around her, the mages she’d brought are assisting as best they can, summoning up gales of wind to blow the fire back, keeping it from spreading any more than it has. Soldiers are running around with buckets, tossing water onto the smaller ones and stamping them out. But the large conflagration, that’s on her to handle.

The maid narrows her eyes in determination. All the cold she’s willing into existence, the small blizzard, isn’t enough. She needs _more_ , and she’s the only one who can do this. That thought rallies her, and Felicia reaches deep into the reservoirs of her strength, pulling up every last drop. And then, with one last mental shove—

The flames are smothered by the solid three feet of snow she drops on them.

“Ha…ha…th-that’s the last one…I think…” she gasps, knees buckling. There’s a reason Lord Corrin had dictated she and Flora not use their powers in battle; using them consistently and in a large scale takes too much out of them, and she’s been doing this for…how long? She can’t remember. One of the mages hands her a canteen of water, and Felicia gratefully snatches it up. Her eyes close in bliss as she chugs it down.

“Felicia!”

Wiping her mouth, she starts at the sight of a familiar brunette running towards her. “Mozu? When did you get—Ah! Lady Azura!”

Lady Azura’s golden eyes glance around. “I thought you might need my assistance with the fire, but you’ve done a remarkable job of handling them on your own. Truly.”

Her assistance? Oh, right, her pendant lets her control water. Felicia curses her foolishness for not remembering that—she’s sure the queen could have gotten this done much faster than her. “I-It wasn’t just me…the mages here used strong winds to…keep them contained, stop them from spreading much further… They could put out…some of the smaller ones that way…”

“Have the nearby civilians been contained, too?”

“Uh, kind of?” She shakes her head, breathing coming back under control. “We rounded them up and helped them…out of the area, but there wasn’t really a safe place to put them. I think…most of them are two streets over, hiding out at the inn.”

“That works for now, but the fighting might get worse.” The queen raises her voice. “Form into two groups! I want half the available soldiers here to escort the citizens back to Castle Avalon! The other half, spread out and search for anyone in need of rescue!”

As the soldier hurry to obey their queen’s command, Mozu asks, “You alright, Felicia? You’re looking a tad pale, there.”

“I’m fine,” she says, and it actually feels true. Felicia straightens up and extracting a dagger from her boot sheath. “What do you intend to do, Lady Azura?”

“I’ll go with the group guiding the citizens,” her friend says after a pause. “They’ll probably feel safer if they see their monarch with them, appearing calm.”

“We’re with you ‘til the end,” Mozu promises, and the three head off into the fighting.

* * *

Lilith twists her braid, anxiety swelling inside her as she watches the knights she’d sent to the front burn under the fire of the surprise wave of strategists. The fliers immediately dart forward, the sky knights beating the mounted mages back while the wyvern riders grab the knights for evacuation. It’s very awkward for them, though; the streets are too narrow and the battle too crowded for their wingspan, so they have to fly above the roofs, exposing themselves to the enemy archers. Even as she watches a rain of arrows falls among them, felling half the wyverns; their large bodies crash into the buildings below, wood splintering under them, and she winces. She’s glad they had the foresight to evacuate this area, but that’s still someone’s home, someone’s livelihood, gone.

The surviving wyvern knights land nearby; the back of their lines is set up as a medical station, and healers quickly move forward. Lilith joins them; she is not a fighter in this human form, she never picked up the accuracy to use knives like other maids and butlers, but she has some skill with a staff. Still, she is not good enough to be active on the battlefield. It was why she’d been left behind at the Northern Fortress all those years ago instead of sent on that fateful mission with her brother.

She rises from her kneeling position over a wounded woman with horrible burns on her face as one of the captains, Kumagera, approaches.

“It’s not looking good out there,” he grunts. “We _should_ be the only ones who know these streets well, but it’s like they have a map of it; they’re not taking any of our bait down the dead ends, and they know all the ambush spots.”

“They might have inside intel,” she says, reluctantly. Seeing some of the looks a few nearby soldiers are giving her, she exclaims “Do you really think I’d have said that if it were me?!”

Abashed, they mumble negatives. Kumagera sighs and shakes his large head. “That’s not a thought I like, but it’s a too plausible one. Either way, the tide’s in their favor, and we need to change it soon.”

Lilith wrings her braid, over and over. “I have an idea,” she finally confesses. “But I need you all to trust me for it to work.”

The soldiers look at each other; the Vallites in particular are hesitant. But finally one of them, a young girl who can’t be older than seventeen, steps forward, face grim. “Not like we have a choice, is it? They’re going to push us back at this point.”

Lilith closes her eyes in relief—begrudging trust is better than no trust at all. “Thank you. Whatever you see next…don’t be alarmed, and don’t be afraid.”

They stare at her, uncomprehending. It isn’t until she’s pulled her dragonstone out of her tunic and clasped her hands around it, as if in prayer, that they realize what she’s going to do. Fearfully, they scramble away as white light envelops her.

It has been so, _so_ long since Lilith has taken on her true dragon form—the little fish one she wore during the war was Moro’s doing, a disguise to hide her from Anankos for all those years. Now she looks much like her father and brother, four legs tipped with razor-sharp claws and large wings and twining horns. For whatever reason, she is larger than Corrin, easily as big as a wyvern, and her red and blue scales gleam in the morning sun as the white light fades out.

Lilith has never had any trouble controlling this shape, for whatever reason, never been plagued by the thirst to destroy all dragons have. Anankos would taunt her about it being a sign that she wasn’t a _real_ dragon, just artificial, and thus not a real person. At the time she’d hated it, hated not being ‘dragon’ enough for him. Now she’s grateful; her precise control will save her men and hopefully the day.

The rebels scramble away, faces going ash with terror, as she lowers her head and charges them. Lilith knocks the first row of samurai over as if they’re nothing more than clay pots, pale skin shattering on the pavement and spilling sanguine liquid.

One brave woman runs at her, raising an axe over her head. Swift as a snake, her head darts out and she grabs her in her jaws, tossing her in the air. The woman hits the ground with a bone-shattering _crack_ and does not move. Lilith rears, flapping her wings—she can’t fly here either, but the effect is still intimidating. She is a dragon, a creature of legend and nightmare; the attackers’ line breaks as they run.

 _“Push on!”_ she roars, and everyone jumps at the sounds of an actual voice passing through her jaws, the distorted echo behind it. _“Push them back! This is our city, and they CANNOT have it! PUSH THEM BACK!”_

Her words are the rallying point her soldiers need. Reassured that she won’t turn on them, they let out a huge cheer and surge forward, renewed.

* * *

The invasion is going well, Jiro thinks, pleased as his regular naginata cuts down another soldier—no use pulling out his secret weapon before he needs it. The pincer has worked well, keeping half the defenders occupied, far away from the real goal. The fire was a happy accident that further helped siphon troops away from the castle into the city. They’re fighting there way uphill now, and he can see the parapets of Castle Avalon through the morning mist.

And then a sky knight falls from the sky in front of him. The feathers are singed, horrible long gashes marring the side of the poor animal. The rider isn’t in much better condition; parts of his armor have been twisted out of proportion, and underneath his helmet Jiro can see he’s lost an eye.

“What happened?” Jiro exclaims in astonishment.

The sky knight sways in his saddle, managing to choke out, “D-Dragon…” before he falls out and hits the ground. A nearby healer immediately rushes to his side, but Jiro pays them no further mind. _A dragon?_ Impossible, isn’t it? The only one is the king, and—

He swears; he’d forgotten about the sister. Jiro quickly sends a ninja to investigate and briefly pulls back from the fight, waiting somewhat impatiently for her return. When she does, her face is pale.

“I don’t know where it came from, but there’s a dragon leading the defenses now,” she reports. “It’s…terrifying. Our men are being routed.”

“What about theirs? Is it attacking them?”

“No, my lord. I don’t know why, if it’s as mindless as—”

“Of course it’s mindless,” he snaps, mind working furiously. The troops he sent into the city are supposed to divide and distract the king’s soldiers; if they’re routed, it’s only a matter of time before they regroup. More than that, a lot of the alliances he has are built on the notion that dragons were nothing more than animals, beasts that would destroy them. If this one shows up acting as proof otherwise…and if it really is routing the troops…

“Send a messenger with a flag of parlay to the king,” he instructs a nearby man.

* * *

“You’re joking,” Corrin says flatly when the messenger arrives. “He’s attempted to assassinate my sister and me, started a coup, besieged my capital, and _now_ he wants to parlay?”

“He knows he’s losing,” Gunter answers, trotting over from being healed. “It’s making him desperate.”

Corrin doesn’t remember how long he’s been fighting for; long enough for the sun to have left the horizon. He’s spotted the flash of light that signaled Lilith’s transformation and seen the smoke over the marketplace dissipate. They’re taking the city back, and for a spiteful moment the dragon in him wants to kill the messenger and send his head back. Let that show Jiro what he thinks of his parlay.

But he stamps it down. Parlay is a right all have and he will not yield to his baser urges, even if the thought is tempting.

“Fine,” he grinds out, knowing he sounds childish and not caring. “Allow him passage.”

The messenger heads off, and Corrin closes his eyes. For a brief, bitter moment he wonders why he’s even doing this. Why he bothered remaking Valla in the first place. He hadn’t had any ties to it, other than the woman he loved and a deceased mother. The Vallites hadn’t even known he’d been alive, so he hadn’t been duty-bound to them, not really. He could have just split them up, sent them across the continent to the different countries, and settled down somewhere nice and quiet with Azura. They wouldn’t have had to deal with scheming subordinates or ingratitude or still more conflict…

And then the treading of armored boots on the ground reaches his ears, and he glimpses Jiro marching through, a personal guard of soldiers on each side. _Because people like him would still exist. People who want power and will manipulate or hurt others to use it. Not reforming Valla wouldn’t have stopped him from hating Nohrians, and who knows where else he would have struck?_

Besides, he would still have been a prince of Hoshido and Nohr. He and Azura would never have been free of the duties that came with that, not in a way that let them keep their siblings as well. More than that, they just wouldn’t have been able to live with themselves if they’d ran. These thoughts straighten his sagging spine, and he gives a curt nod to the man. No bow; Jiro doesn’t deserve that.

After a long moment of silence, Corrin finally says, “I can’t imagine you’ve come all this way to surrender.”

“It would be foolish of me to do that and you to believe it. No, that’s not why I’ve asked for this parlay.”

Jrio turns slowly, sweeping an arm across the view: blood on the cobblestones, buildings bearing the signs of battle, broken arrows, weapons and bodies littering the ground. “Is this what you want for your city, Your Highness? Ruin and death? We can continue fighting until one of us emerges victorious, or we can end things with no more casualties.”

He draws a katana—obviously ceremonial, from the golden blade—and drives it into the ground. “I give you the chance to end this farce, here and now. I challenge you to one-on-one combat. Whoever wins here, wins the entire battle. The defeated’s troops will all surrender.”

“Do _not_ take him up on it,” Gunter hisses, breaching protocol to grab his arm. “He’s losing, he _knows_ he is, and that is why he is challenging you to a duel. If you refuse and press the attack, we’ll win.”

“And how many more will die?” he counters. He gestures to the cowering civilians, the blood-stained streets and bodies. “He has a point that the city is no environment for fighting. If I can end this all here and now, with no more bloodshed, isn’t it my duty as king to do so?”

“And if you lose? What about your country? What about your _wife_? Do you _want_ to leave her a widow before even your first anniversary?!”

“Of course not!” He bristles. “Don’t you have any faith in my ability to win, Gunter?”

His old retainer slumps. “…I have never doubted your expertise in combat, Lord Corrin,” he sighs. “It’s always been your heart I’ve feared for. Lord Jiro will have some trick up his sleeve, some way to take advantage of your trusting nature.”

“…I know. But I couldn’t live with myself if I let more of my people die because I’m afraid.” He turns back and gives Jiro a steely gaze. “I accept your terms, then.”

* * *

The arena is quickly set up on the street, bodies cleared away and blood washed. Their soldiers form up around them in a rough circle. It’s a deterrent as much as spectating—if one side tries to break the rules and assist, the other will be quickly on top of them.

Corrin’s eyebrows rise when he watches Jiro pull out a _lance_ —he’d have thought the man, fanatical as he is, would have stuck to a Hoshidan naginata. Still, that isn’t as odd as the weapon itself; it’s made of some red material, the head adorned with multiple points and a large leaf blade for cutting. It’s a cruel armament, and for some reason he is uneasy just looking at it.

Shaking it off, he draws Omega Yato from its sheath, willing it to life. Fire sprouts along the sword, and the blades on its edges spin to life. For a long, tense moment, the two simply stare at each other, gauging, waiting; then Jiro charges, bringing that strange lance up. Corrin rocks on the balls of his feet and prepares to dodge.

He is very much not prepared for Jiro to attempt to _slash_ with the lance instead of stab. It’s so unorthodox he briefly pauses, jerking to the left a second too late, and it cuts a thin line on his face.

_Gods!_

Corrin recoils back, biting back a yell of pain. It was only a shallow cut, but _Dusk and Dawn_ it _burns_.

 _Wyrmslayer!_ The dragon in him hisses, alarmed. _Wyrmslayer!_

“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” the slimy bastard asks, a smirk in his tone. So _that_ had been his trick, then; a clever one, Corrin has to admit. No need for poison on a weapon when the weapon itself is poison.

“Unfair!” Gunter snarls, and an angry murmur of agreement rises among the rest of his loyal soldiers.

“He has a legendary weapon forged by the gods,” Jiro says innocently. “I’d say mine is plenty _fair_ in comparison.”

Rather than waste words on banter, Corrin decides the best thing to do is just end the fight as fast as he can. He’s already at a disadvantage, with the lance’s longer reach; the wyrmslaying properties spell certain death if he doesn’t win quickly. It’s now Jiro’s turn to be startled as Corrin spins to build momentum, sweeping Omega Yato around in a side slash he has to strain to parry.

Their weapons clash again and again. Jiro is skilled, but obviously used to wielding a naginata; he has to keep compensating for the differences in a lance, forgetting to account for the shaft’s length and instinctively slashing more often than stabbing. Tired as he is, and as dangerous as that lance is, Corrin has no doubt his foe’s unfamiliarity with Nohrian weaponry is the only reason he’s still alive. And even so he still quickly accumulates a collection of cuts, each one burning like a hot iron.

He catches the next slash with Omega Yato; for a minute, he hopes the blades whirring along the edges will snap the lance’s shaft, but whatever metal it’s made of holds strong. Jiro shows no sign of discomfort or fear at the flames mere inches away from his body. His face is smug, and that frustration deep inside Corrin is building and building, and with the stress and pain and despair over _another_ betrayal something deep inside Corrin _snaps_.

He doesn’t even consciously think about tossing Yato aside, grabbing his dragonstone and transforming; the dragon just _explodes_ out of him, born as a roaring storm of scales and claws. For a very brief moment Jiro’s expression becomes one of shock and fear, and then his instincts take over and he stops noticing things like that. With a shriek of rage, he charges forward.

Pain registers on his left flank as the human, in a desperate move, lunges forward, opting to try ducking inside his horns’ range. Then he darts out again, before his claws or tail can catch hold and rend him limb from limb.

The dragon is furious. The dragon is focused. The dragon does not care about the stings of that hateful little stick as the human darts out of his reach, desperately swinging it to stay alive; all he cares about is _killing._

That cursed weapon darts forward again, and the dragon has had enough. With a beat of his wings he leaps into the air, soaring over the lance and flying directly at the wielder. He tackles him to the ground; a claw slams around the human’s throat, pinning him in place. The lance falls to the ground. The dragon throws back his head and _screams_ his triumph.

The dragon lowers his head until he’s nose-to-nose with the puny, weak human who thought to overthrow him. One hand is feebly clawing at the grip around his throat, his face slowly turning purple. The dragon growls in satisfaction, but suddenly a snippet of memory rises up, and the fat human’s face is replaced with another one. A beloved face, tear-stained as lips gasp out soft words: _“kill me if you want, but do it as yourself.”_

_…Azura?_

No, this isn’t Azura. This isn’t like that time.

But…isn’t it?

The dragon shakes his head, trying to chase such annoying, insect-like thoughts away. But—it’s the first time he’s actually, consciously thought words in this form. And now that he has, there’s an odd awareness, persistent and nagging. The weaker, human side of him resurging, bringing with it pesky morals and conflict. Weakness.

 _No, this isn’t weakness!_ The human insists. _This isn’t right. This is…_

_This would be murder._

His opponent is defeated, so he doesn’t need to go for the kill, right? Otherwise he would be sinking to his level, wouldn’t he? Suddenly the thought of squeezing him until his head pops off isn’t as appealing. Hesitantly, the claws loosen, just a tad, just enough to allow for air. The human gasps in relief.

The dragon looks up, and—there are other humans, staring at him. The air is heavy with the sour stenches of their fear, and that should have pleased him. But it doesn’t. Instead it makes something in his chest and stomach twist painfully.

_They look at me like I’m a monster._

And he isn’t. He’s Corrin.

Corrin blinks, and something _clicks_ into place, unbridled rage tempered and human mind regaining control. The world is still filtered through the eyes of a dragon, but it suddenly isn’t controlled by it anymore.

Deliberately, he releases Jiro and steps back. He concentrates, and white light gathers around him. Jiro rubs his throat as Corrin straightens up, back in his human skin. He fixes his gaze on the rebel army, then on his own, huddled close together.

“I am not the mindless monster you fear I am,” he says, loudly and clearly. “I do have control of myself. Even in the throes of battle rage, I still recognized when my opponent was beaten, and did not take his life.”

Stunned silence is his only answer. Corrin tries to think of something else to say, but he’s exhausted. _Let the briefness carry the message._

“You’ve lost, Lord Jiro. Your coup is over.” He turns, glancing back at Kaze. “Kaze, if you could—”

The sound of running behind him and the alarm on Kaze’s face is the only warning he gets.

He spins, eyes widening as they see Lord Jiro, face twisted in fury, lunging at him, the lance cutting through the air like a ballista’s bolt. Instinctively, one hand grasps for Omega Yato; his fingers clasp at nothingness, and too late he remembers it lying kicked to the side. His guards are moving, yells forming on their lips, but they’re too far and that lance is too close. Corrin does the only thing he can think of and raises his other arm in front of his chest, the limb twisting and growing into a giant claw in a last-ditch attempt to shield himself.

The lance pierces the claw, continues _through_ it, and sets itself in his sternum and _oh gods the **pain** it burns like nothing before _he falls to the ground vaguely aware of people rushing around him faces appear over him yelling words he can’t understand he thinks he might be screaming but he can’t be sure because his blood is spilling out around him and what’s left in his body is on fire it’s _agony_ pure and simple he’s screaming and screaming and screaming and then there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please don’t hate me.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was hoping this would be done by its anniversary, but nope. I guess it technically is if you don’t count the epilogue? Also, sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter, but…you know. I have to do something to leave y’all hanging at some point. It’s an author’s obligation :P

Around him, lush grass stretches in all directions, as far as the eye can see. No mountains hover on the horizon, no rocks or trees break up the monotony. It is a field, plain and simple, endless. He tilts his head back, catching a glimpse of fluffy white clouds and blue sky. The air is pleasantly warm, the light breeze carrying the scent of something sweet.

He can’t quite remember how he got here. His chest and right forearm ache painfully, but when he glances at them there’s no injury. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, either. Is he waiting for someone? Trying to go somewhere?

With a shrug, Corrin picks a direction and starts walking, hoping to find…something. He isn’t sure what. He supposes he’ll know when he finds it.

* * *

“Lady Azura?” Felicia pokes her head in. The maid looks dead on her feet; there are a hundred tasks to handle and not nearly enough time to handle them. “The court’s waiting.”

She stares at her reflection a moment longer. She almost doesn’t recognize the woman in it, the stone-faced woman with just the hint of despair in her eyes. But she knows her. It’s an expression she used to wear, back in Hoshido, back when all she could do was dread Anankos’s arrival. If the background of her room were different and she didn’t have a crown on, she could have stepped back in time.

“Lady Azura?”

“I’m coming,” Azura says, breaking her gaze away from her mirror. As she starts towards the door, Felicia breaks protocol by placing a hand on her arm. She glances up; her friend is attempting a smile, although it’s strained. “I’ve known Lord Corrin for years now. He’s strong. He’ll get through this.”

She’s heard that platitude so many times now, she almost wants to scream. But Felicia is her friend. She means well. So instead Azura accepts it with a mute nod and follows her out.

In the throne room, the court is assembled, all the nobles crowding around and murmuring to each other. As one, their eyes all turn to Azura when she enters. Something that once would have made her flinch barely phases her now. Maybe she’s gotten better with crowds, or maybe she’s just immune when other things are on her mind. Azura settles on the throne, looking down. “Bring the prisoners out,” she declares.

One by one, soldiers march up from the dungeons, shoving prisoners before them. Lord Jiro is at the forefront, looking filthy from his time in captivity. Bandages cover his throat, and she quells the urge to rub her own, remembering how badly dragon claws bruised.

She does not want to sit and judge; that’s Corrin’s job. To do so feels like giving up, like admitting he’ll never recover. It’s why she still wears white, and why her hair is still long, uncut. But the longer she leaves these people alone, the greater the chances what remains of their allies will come out of hiding and try to break them. The conflict will escalate again. She has already tested her luck by waiting a week; she must end this, here, now.

“Daimyo Jiro,” she begins, “You have been found guilty of numerous crimes against the crown, including disrupting the peace of Valla’s citizens, plotting treason against the crown, destruction of property, and attempted regicide. The punishment—”

“Bitch queen!” he spits, squirming against his bonds; a hard kick to the back of his knees makes him buckle. But it doesn’t silence him. “Your crown is false; these lands have belonged to Hoshido for generations! We didn’t repel Nohr for decades only to welcome them into our homes now, and certainly not under the rule of a foreigner! This is—”

“Valla,” she says evenly. “And according to Vallite law the punishment for these crimes is death by burning.” For a country with such an affinity to water, there is nothing worse than to die by its sworn enemy. And fire is a terrible, terrible way to die.

She pauses, lets that sink in. A deep dark part of her secretly enjoys the fear that crosses his face, the way he blanches and goes silent. “However, that’s an archaic law. My husband decided it needed revision. So tomorrow morning, you will be brought before the city of Elysium and hung by the neck until dead. Your wife and sons will be exiled, and your lands given to our allies, the Akiyamas, as reward for their assistance and loyalty.”

He tries to speak again, but Gunter, who holds him, shoves a rag into his mouth. With the gag in place, Jiro can do no more than glare and struggle, and that is the last Azura sees of him as he is carted back to his cell.

She repeats this for each noble shoved forth, many of whom had joined Jiro in the invasion of Elysium and been captured. Those directly involved are sentenced to death, their immediate family are exiled, and their lands stripped or passed to more distant family members. As far as she knows, only Haitaka remains, distant in the west—and he is besieged by Silas’s men. With Jakob and Flora writing of bringing their own Ice Tribe allies in and pledging an oath of loyalty to Valla, she expects him to fall any day now.

Finally, Nestor’s turn arrives, and she stares down. “Nestor, former steward of Valla,” Azura grinds; she _does not_ like betrayal. “You have been found guilty of betrayal of your oaths to the crown and assistance in treason.” And then, breaking script, because Corrin had _trusted_ him and he _deserved_ to know— “Have you anything to say in your defense?”

“I believed I was doing the right thing,” is all he says, and she wants to scream— _that’s_ it? By whose standards was _this_ the right thing? For a steward to betray his king—it is unthinkable. For a man to betray the man who delivered him from slavery, even moreso.

“The right thing?” Despite herself, her voice shakes. With anger, with grief, she’s not sure. “Look around you. Look at the city that’s still being repaired, the bodies that are still being given funerals, the _damage_ that’s been done. How could _that_ be the right thing?”

“By preventing something worse.”

She doesn’t ask him to elaborate, because she knows. _He bought into all the rumors, then…of Corrin’s dragon side making him dangerous._ She’s suddenly glad her husband isn’t here to hear this. Azura glares down and grinds out, “Tomorrow morning, you will be brought before the city of Elysium and hung by the neck until dead.”

She’s sure Corrin would disagree with her. He would want to give Nestor another chance. But she is not as kind as her husband. Azura has no mercy for those who tried to take him from her. _Those who may still yet_.

She stamps down on that traitorous thought, but the fear remains, an unwelcome guest in her heart, as the last prisoner is brought forward. The woman looks rather unremarkable; her brown hair is knotted from her days in the dungeon, her glasses cracked, and a bruise extends from the edges of her temple. But her eyes are a sharp, wintry green. Standing by her side, Lilith leans in. “That’s the agent,” she murmurs, and Azura nods. Lilith had been the one to capture her, flying over and sinking the rebel boats when they tried to escape. Many had drowned, clad in their heavy armor, and they’re still cleaning out the bodies from the harbor. But some, like this woman, had just been in clothes or lighter armor, and those Lilith had saved, plucking from the water with sharp claws.

Kaze’s men have already interrogated her thoroughly. There are no other agents, and all the names of the rebels had been given. She was surprisingly compliant. Perhaps she was graceful in her defeat, or perhaps she just didn’t care much for the rebellion to begin with.

“What is your name?”

“Laurel, Your Majesty.”

She nods. “Laurel of Valla, you have been found guilty of numerous crimes against the crown, including disrupting the peace of Valla’s citizens, plotting treason against the crown, destruction of property, and attempted regicide. The punishment is death by hanging. Tomorrow morning, you will be brought before the city of Elysium and hung by the neck until dead.”

There is a peaceful smile on the woman—Laurel’s—face. “I don’t mind dying. I’ve already won.”

“You’ve won nothing,” Azura says, fingers curling around the edge of her throne’s armrests. She is ice. She is steel. She has anger and hate burning deep inside her and she carefully, carefully boxes it away. If she gives it even a tiny bit of reign, she may break. “Valla stands more united than ever.”

That is probably the only blessing to come of this; the Nohrians and Hoshidans of Elysium had both been attacked. Things like prejudice stopped mattering when you had a common enemy. That solidarity had only been strengthened by having to rebuild together, bonding over shared loss and strife. She doesn’t know how the rest of the country is doing, but here, in the capital, change is coming. It’s a start.

“But breaking Valla was never my goal. Tell me, how is your lord husband doing, Your Majesty?” Azura’s mask almost slips, red flashes across her vision, and for a brief moment she is very tempted to strike the woman. “Still on deathbed? Slipping away? _That_ is why I say I’ve won.”

Ice and steel. Ice and steel. “Take her away,” Azura tells Kaze, and he bows.

* * *

A low fog has rolled in as he’s wandered. It’s slightly irritating, but it isn’t really affecting anything—no matter how far he’s walked, nothing’s changed. The scenery around him stays the same. He might as well be walking in place.

It could be forever, or it could only be a few moments, before he finally catches a glimpse of something different. A small, flickering red shape through the fog. Relieved to find a break from the monotony, he picks up his pace, at first just walking faster, then jogging, then he’s running across the grass. If he doesn’t get there soon, it might go away and he’ll be left alone in this static world again.

But it doesn’t disappear, and once he makes his way through the fog he can see it’s a dimly flickering campfire. Crouched besides it is a figured covered head to toe in a body-concealing white robe. Face, size, even gender are unknowns. The hood moves, tilting up slightly; the shadow it casts hides all features, but Corrin gets the impression the person is staring at him.

“You’re a long way from home.” The voice is distinctly masculine. A man, then. He hopes—there are a few women, like Elise’s retainer Effie, who have naturally deep voices, and it would be terrible to make that mistake.

“Am I?” Corrin frowns, looking around. It’s true, the grass is too green for Nohr, the landscape too flat for Hoshido, and the fog is too unnatural for Valla. For some reason those thoughts hadn’t crossed his mind until now. “I’m not even certain where ‘here’ is.”

The figure prods at the campfire with a stick. “It’s the in between.”

“Can I sit?” The hood moves, up, down; Corrin gratefully sinks to the ground, rubbing a foot. He adapted to long, barefoot marches during the war, hard calluses forming on the soles of his feet, but he suddenly feels so _tired._ Not tired-sleepy, just tired-out of energy. “In between where?”

“Life and death.” The flames crackle; the void peers up at him again. “You’re dying.”

It doesn’t quite seem real to Corrin. _You’re dying, you’re dying, you’re dying_ , those words hold all the weight of those in a book. He blinks. Opens his mouth to protest. And then he remembers—

 _Waking to find his city under attack—splitting with Azura, just a few short words and a brief kiss—fighting, fighting, fighting—the duel—the dragon—the lance—the_ pain—

Corrin exhales, a long, rattling breath. “Oh.”

The stick darts in, out; a small spurt of flame licks at it. The figure withdraws it, blowing gently. “You have some very skilled people back home. They’re keeping you alive. But make no mistake…your body is dying. Your mind just hasn’t caught on to that yet, so here you are.”

He wants to say something. He should say something. But he’s robbed of words. _You’re dying. You’re dying. You’re dying._

And so he sits in quiet horror, as the figure turns back to the fire.

* * *

Azura orders all her soldiers to be on guard the next morning, but for once the gods are merciful; there is no daring escape, no trouble. Jiro and Laurel and all the condemned nobles are led to the execution blocks, the crowd below screaming for vengeance, and with little ado summarily hung. It feels too anticlimactic for the trouble and grief they’ve caused her. But she’ll take it.

As soon as the execution is over, Azura hands things over to Gunter for the day—they will need to find a new steward soon, just another thing on a too-long list—and visits her husband. She finds one of her sisters waiting in the sickroom; dark shadows paint the area beneath Sakura’s eyes, and her skin is too pale. “N-No change,” she tells Azura when she steps inside. Her fingers are soaked red, and filthy bandages litter the table next to her; she must be in the midst of changing Corrin’s wrappings.

Her husband looks terrible—stripped to the waist, skin covered in sweat, and a sickly gray tinge to his face. The wound on his chest is still bleeding, pus clinging to the edges, and the veins around it are black. He is still as death, not shifting in his sleep, not even making noise. Azura quietly sits beside him and takes his hand as Sakura wraps linen back around his torso. She can’t stop staring at his face, searching for something, anything, any sign he’s still in there…

She doesn’t realize she’s blanked out until a hand comes to rest on hers, making her jump. “Azura…” She looks up, seeing that the bandages have been fully changed. Sakura’s concerned eyes peer into her own. “You sh-should get some sleep. Y-You look awful. No offense.”

“I could say the same to you,” she remarks.

Her sister had come straight from Nohr the minute she’d heard about Corrin, joining the other healers in their battle to sustain his life. She doesn’t think Sakura’s slept since; every time she stops by the priestess is there, changing bandages or spooning broth into his mouth or frowning as she tries and _tries_ to coax the wound shut. Leo came with her, but Azura hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him since he landed; her brother immediately locked himself in Castle Avalon’s royal library, and the only signs he’s alive are the empty food trays and the notes about things he’s discovered by the door.

She was a little surprised when Camilla didn’t show up, but reports of fleeing rebels being slaughtered by a purple-haired woman on a “wyvern from hell” answered that question. In Hoshido, Ryoma and Elise are too occupied by their crown, but Takumi is mimicking Camilla’s actions on the Hoshidan border, and Hinoka has been flying in with medicines from as many lands as she can find. She’ll have to ask her to deliver a letter to Izumo the next time she comes, Azura thinks tiredly. Maybe Duke Izana knows something, or someone…

Sakura shakes her head. “I’ll rest when he’s stable.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, for the umpteenth time. She’s expecting to be told to fetch water, or change his bedsheets, and those things are important—but they don’t feel _enough_. So Azura is surprised when Sakura pauses, looking deep in thought.

“W-Well, actually…maybe. I’ve been collaborating with Leo, a-and writing to Izumo, and I had a thought. The magic in your regular songs heal, right?”

The brief hope that had flickered inside her dies. “It revitalizes,” she says dully. “Or calms. It doesn’t heal.” She’s tried that already, sneaking in during the dead of night to sing to him until the sun has come up and her voice has broken. It’s done nothing.

“But that’s still important! His b-body needs energy, t-to fight back against the poison…so keeping it refreshed is vital. It’ll make fighting off infection much…much easier, too.”

Doubt must still show on her face, because Sakura flushes and says hastily, “But it was just an idea,” and, taking the soiled bandages in her arm, hurries off to discard them.

Azura sits back and stares at Corrin, self-loathing wriggling in her. Hadn’t she asked for something to do? Hadn’t she wanted to do _anything_ to try and help him? Then why had she rejected the idea outright? Just because it hadn’t produced an immediate result?

Has she really started to give up hope?

That thought spurs her, and so Azura grips her pendant tightly and sings.

* * *

The silence after the figure’s statement lasts for a very, very long time.

“…Is there…anything I can do? Some way to just…stop dying?” It’s tentative, soft. Corrin barely dares to hope—but there must be something, there’s _always_ something—

“You can fight back. You can try to will yourself to live. But…” And here the figure’s hood turns up again, the gaping blackness yawning at him. “That may not be enough. You have to understand, _you are dying_. Your body is in a condition that is beyond your power to change. The choices you made led you here, to this moment, and now you have to face the consequences. Sometimes willpower just isn’t enough to defy what we don’t want to happen.”

“I don’t believe that,” Corrin says, fists clenching. Because if he accepts that as true—he accepts he’ll never get to go back. That he won’t get to see his friends, his siblings, his wife again. That he’ll never spar with Silas or meditate with Kaze or duet with Azura. That he’ll never get to see peace reign in Valla or become a father or do all the things he wanted to do—

And oh gods, he _does not want to die._ He came close to it, so many times in the war, but somehow—somehow it never seemed quite real. Perhaps he got overconfident in his abilities, or he stopped remembering the possibility of dying, but out of nowhere that fear is there, stark and black. _I don’t want to die!_ Panic grips his chest, claws tightening forcefully, and he’s suddenly short of breath.

Either the figure is reading his mind, or maybe just responding to his earlier sentence, because he answers, “It doesn’t matter if you don’t. Reality is a harsh mistress that cares nothing for what we want. Some limitations simply can’t be overcome.”

“Reality is something we make, isn’t it?” he challenges. “It’s defined by our actions and choices. When we reach a limit, we try to find a way around them, or to break them. That’s just the way humans are. And even if I can’t defy what happens to me…I still want to try.”

Silence. Then a low, long chuckle. “That’s one interpretation, I suppose. But know this…even if you do survive, you will never be the same. _That_ is the reality of the poison that courses through you.”

“But is there a chance? _Any_ chance at all?”

The figure sighs. “Yes, there is.”

“Then I’ll take that chance, and hold onto it with all my being.” Azura or one of his siblings would tease him for sounding corny, but that’s the only way he knows how to talk—putting all his feeling into the words.

The figure doesn’t comment either way. The hood is bowed over the flames, and Corrin gets the impression he is gazing into them intently. He frowns slightly; how does you just _will_ yourself to stay alive? How do you even know it’s working? Still, he does his best, mentally chanting the words _I want to live_ over and over.

He thinks—this place is timeless, so he’s not sure, but he _thinks_ —time passes. He doesn’t know how much. Long enough for him to start hearing something very faint. Corrin furrows his brow, concentrating. It’s a _noise_ , that’s obvious, but _what_?

“Do you hear that?”

The figure looks up. “No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Just that someone like me can’t hear it.”

That wording strikes Corrin as very odd, distracting him from the distant singing—singing! That’s it! “…Hey, who are you? What do you mean, ‘someone like you’?”

“Someone who can’t go back.” The figure rises. He’s tall, Corrin can tell, even though the guilty hunch to his shoulders detracts height. “I’m not like you, lingering in the limbo of life and death. I’ve been dead for a while. I just chose not to move on right away.”

For some reason, Corrin is compelled to stand also. “Why not?”

“I’m waiting for someone. My son.”

“I see… Well, I hope you get to see him soon.” Then Corrin remembers where they are, what getting here entails, and blanches. “I mean, sorry, I hope you _don’t_ —not for a while—”

The figure laughs softly. “It’s fine.” And _finally,_ the shadows shift, just enough for him to catch gleaming, _familiar_ blood-red eyes under the hood. “Besides, I already have.”

Corrin’s breath hitches. He can’t help the surge of fear that rises in him, memories of a rampaging dragon, an arduous battle, the dead walking. Despite himself, he takes a step back. “Anankos.”

Hands rise and slowly pull the hood down. Anankos looks exactly the way he did in Lilith’s portrait, long blue hair and high cheekbones and sad, sad eyes. “Yes.”

His hand goes for a sword that isn’t there. “Why are you here?”

Anankos smiles mournfully. “I told you: I was waiting for you. As I died, in my final moments, I saw you dying. I didn’t know when, but once my spirit passed and my insanity was purged, I knew it was true. And I was selfish. I wanted to see you, just once, just when I wasn’t twisted with insanity. So, I stayed.”

“Then—is Mother here too?” Despite himself, Corrin looks around, searching for black hair.

The dragon shakes his head. “She could not linger. Her spirit had to immediately move on, in case I tried to revive her again while I was…not sane. Besides, she’s already said her piece.”

“And…what did you want to say?”

Anankos laughs. “Isn’t that strange? I had what felt like an eternity to work it out, to plan what I’d say—and yet I find all words gone.” He looks up at the sky in contemplation. “I suppose… that I never meant for any of this to happen. I was helpless, powerless, against my own nature. It relieved me beyond words to know you and your sister would escape my fate.”

Corrin silently listens as Anankos continues, voice choked, “I’m so proud of you both, you know. Don’t think it was just because of fate that you beat me, because I saw several possibilities. Ones where you failed, or where you picked one side and I continued to linger in the shadows…your path wasn’t set. You carved it out, and you’re continuing to do so. That makes me so infinitely proud.”

“Anankos…”

Anankos holds out a large, blue gem, with a small chunk in the middle missing. Corrin looks at it, brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

“My last dragonstone…the one I used to create that pendant. I want you to hold it.”

Hesitantly, Corrin wraps his fingers around it—and jerks back as power flows into him, infusing his very bones. It’s warm and rapid, like a fast-running river. He glances up wildly. “What was that?!”

Maybe it’s just him, but it looks like Anankos is fading. The dragon takes the stone back and looks at it thoughtfully. “The strength I used to linger here. Yes…that should be sufficient. There’s not much, but in combination with everything else your friends are doing, it should be enough to help you go back.”

Corrin looks from his hands back to the stone. “How did you do that?”

“Well, I was the closest thing you had to a deity. And you are my son. That blood tie is enough for me to pass a bit of strength onto you.”

The distant singing is getting louder, wordless but still beautiful. And the fog around him has begun to clear, revealing a night sky scattered with stars. Anankos smiles. “I think it’s time for you to wake up, son, and for me to move on. I’m glad I got the chance to finally talk to you.”

The world around him is slowly fading to white. Corrin watches as Anankos starts to turn away. Something—some emotion, something like panic and longing and sadness—seizes him. Before he can think twice, he steps forward, calling out, “Father!”

Anankos stops short. Corrin swallows, the knot in his chest growing tighter and tighter. He doesn’t know what to say. How to convey all the hurt and fear he’d felt when he learned of his father’s true identity. How he struggled to accept that. And how, maybe now, by speaking to him…he thinks he might finally be able to. “…Thank you. And…I forgive you. I know what happened wasn’t really your fault.”

His father turns. There’s a smile pulling at his lips, and his eyes are wet. “That’s the greatest gift you could have ever given me.”

As all sight and sound evaporate, the last thing Corrin feels is the sensation of warmth encompassing him, almost like a hug. “Live a happy life, Corrin. You and your sister both. That’s all a father wants for his children.”

* * *

Noise. There’s noise around him; the soft crackling of a fire, footsteps creaking on wood floors, the quiet murmurs of distantly familiar voices. But above that, the lilt of a soprano. The words are different, but he’d recognize that voice anywhere. _Follow the music home._

“A…zu…”

The singing stops. “Did one of you say something?”

A chorus of ‘no’s come from the room’s other occupants—there must be other occupants, right? He thinks there must. More sensation is returning to him, an awareness of sticky fabric on his chest and softness around him. Something cool is holding his hand. He tries to open his eyes, but it _hurts_ , the lights of the lamps burning his corneas. His head feels stuffy.

He’s really thirsty, he thinks bizarrely. “…ura…” he croaks again.

An intake of breath. “…Corrin?”

“’s me,” he manages to rasp. He tries to open his eyes again and is pleased when they aren’t burned, although everything in his vision is blurry and doubled.

“Corrin!” Soft hands clasp his face. Two identical faces appear above him, overlaying each other, but as he blinks they slowly shift together into one. Sharpen. Azura.

“B-Big Brother!” Footsteps. Then Sakura appears above him, her eyes wide.

“Sakura? What…” His voice breaks and he coughs harshly. There’s pain in the center of his chest, throbbing and deep and _hot_ , and the motions of coughing make it stronger. His vision starts to go blurry again, tears of pain prickling at the corners of his eyes.

The pink in his peripheral vision vanishes, returning a moment later. “H-Here. Drink this, and…stay calm.”

He takes the mug gratefully, raising it to his mouth. Gags when something bitter hits his tongue instead of water. But the cough is subsiding at the first swallow, so he finishes it, trying not to make a face like he’s a little kid again.

When he’s done drinking the concoction, the pain in his chest hasn’t gone away at all. But his head feels clearer, and his vision isn’t swimming anymore, so that’s an improvement. Yes, he wasn’t mistaken, that’s his younger sister by his bedside, twisting a staff in her hands. Azura’s on his other, her usual calm composure broken by relief, and next to her is…

 “And he wakes!” Corrin blinks, staring dumbly at the smiling man by his wife’s side. _Duke Izana? What’s he doing here?_

“I beseeched him,” Azura answers, seeing his perplexed expression. “Izumo has the best healers on the continent, the most medical advances, and…you were dying. I begged him to send aid. I wasn’t expecting him to show up himself, though.”

“Well, how could I not? I mean, _he is the ocean’s gray waves_ …” His wife glares, and the duke giggles. “Oh, come, you shouldn’t be surprised that song caught on with the bards! You sang it so often, after all, and it is very catchy. The perfect thing to hum while in the bath…”

“So…you and Sakura have been the ones caring for me?”

“Well, the head healer was in charge when Lady Sakura got here, but he quickly passed it over to her!” Duke Izana leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “I think he thought you’d die, and didn’t want to get the blame for that... Anyway, yep! I arrived a little while ago, and we’ve been bosom buddies in your recovery since!”

He’d forgotten how…enthusiastic the duke could be. “Thank you, Duke Izana.”

“No problemo! Now, why don’t you tell me how you feel? Any of your limbs numb? Any sharp pains? Having difficulty breathing?”

He closes his eyes, assessing. His right arm and chest feel oddly tingly. His chest, especially, is uncomfortably tight, and still in pain. He tells them this and watches his sister frown, the suddenly-serious expression on the duke’s face. A stone drops in his stomach. “How bad is that?”

“We d-don’t know,” Sakura says, face pinched with worry. “We’ll need to run a diagnostic spell…”

They unwrap the bandages to study his chest wound, and Corrin’s belly twists. It’s going to leave a scar, a nasty one, he can tell; the new skin is thin and an angry red. Azura quietly fills him in on how long he’s been out, as the green light of their staves wash over him.

“Two months?” he repeats in disbelief, keeping his voice low to not disturb Sakura and Duke Izana.

His wife nods, face clouded. “I had to execute the rebel leaders without you. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait any longer. But the threat has passed now.”

“Did you ever find out why Nestor…” He trails off, seeing the anger the crosses Azura’s face. Nothing good, then. He understands why she went through with executing them, but irritation flickers nonetheless. He wishes she hadn’t. He wishes he’d gotten the chance to get closure. Now he’s just left with a hollow feeling of betrayal.

Finally, the light fades. Corrin listens, Azura’s hand in his left, as Sakura rattles off what their diagnosis is.

“Alright…from what we could tell, the wyrmsbane destroyed a portion of the muscles around your heart…which means it’s going to have trouble beating. Physical activities are going to stress it, and if you push it too hard you run the risk of collapse or even death. Y-You’ll need to be tested more thoroughly to see how bad the damage is and what’s okay for you to do. But until the healers clear you up, no fighting, no horse riding, no running, no lifting heavy objects—” And here her face turns bright, bright red, and she whispers the last words in a rush, “and no sex.”

 _Sex_ and _his sister_ are two topics he never, ever wants near each other, so he can share her embarrassment. Still, that’s overshadowed by the dismay and horror that falls on him, hearing what she describes. It’s—it’s being crippled. “Can’t magic fix that?”

Duke Izana chimes in here, his usual flighty demeanor completely absent. “Healing magic works by _repairing,_ not _restoring._ If something is completely destroyed, like those muscles around your heart, magic can’t bring it back. It’s why there are amputees missing arms or legs, or why you’re still tired when you’re healed: only your physical wounds were healed, your mental and physical stamina weren’t rejuvenated. So unfortunately, no; it might improve, but you’ll likely have a weakened heart for life.”

“A-Also…when you tried to block the spear with your arm, you damaged that too.” Corrin’s almost afraid to glance at it. But there’s nothing too awful, just some bandages and a sling. Somehow he hadn’t noticed. Experimentally, he tries to flex his fingers, feels them respond a second too slow. “N-Nothing as bad as your heart…you just broke your forearm and injured some of the nerves. Th-That’s why your hand and arm feel a bit numb and slow. We couldn’t heal them while you were unconscious, we were too busy stabilizing you, s-so, um…while your arm will just heal naturally if it stays put, the window to heal the nerve damage has closed.”

“Finally,” the duke adds, “it maaaaaaaaaaay be just a teensy bad idea to try turning into a dragon, at least for now. Its physiology is so different from a human’s, there’s no telling what that poison might have done to it. Or what the strain on your heart could cause. So lay off the dragon mojo, at least until we can figure whether or not its S-A-F-E!”

Corrin sits back and absorbs the information given. The notion of never being able to fight again—it leaves him mixed. He doesn’t like fighting. He’d gladly give it up forever if he could. But he’s grown to accept that it’s a necessity, sometimes, and without his sword arm or his dragon form, how can he protect the people he loves?

He sighs. Awareness prickles at his skin. He can feel Azura’s gaze boring into the side of his head, and knows she wants to talk. So, as soon as the healers’ attention returns to him, he requests, “Would you mind giving me and Azura some time alone?”

Sakura dips her head, eyes flickering between them; Sakura is intuitive, she must be able to read Azura’s mood as clearly as he. “Of course…”

“Don’t get too frisky, lovebirds!” Duke Izana singsongs, and then he follows the princess out.

As the door shuts behind them, Corrin looks at his wife, evaluating. Her lips are drawn into a thin line and her eyes are slightly narrowed. Now that her relief at having him back has passed, she’s furious. He’s seen that look directed at others before, but rarely at him—the first and last time was when he walked in on her bathing. “I guess…you’re really mad at me, huh?”

Her voice is very, forcefully, even. “Gunter told me what you did. Accepting a duel with that man? What were you _thinking_?”

“I was thinking I could minimalize casualties by ending everything right then,” he responds quietly. He won’t get angry. He can get where she’s coming from. If their positions were reversed, he would be absolutely livid.

Azura closes her eyes, breathes in deeply. “And you honestly believed he would just—accept defeat? Or not try to pull what he did?”

“I believed he would adhere to Hoshidan honor, yes.”

“That’s not good enough, Corrin! Not everyone is as good-hearted as you believe! You _have_ to accept that!”

He starts, surprised by her shouting. “Do you know how my heart stopped when I came up that road, found absolute chaos as soldiers milled about everywhere, and was told you were dying?” Azura’s voice cracks, and that alone tells him how badly he frightened her. “How _terrifying_ it was, to run over and see you lying there, with all that blood?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, because what else _can_ he say?

“I know you think about the greater good a lot, but you need to think about the smaller things too! All the people who love you, and what your death would do to them…You aren’t just a king, you’re a husband and a brother as well.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She glares a moment longer, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Don’t you _ever_ do anything as foolish and risky as that again.”

“I won’t,” Corrin promises, opening his good arm. She leans over and hugs him, and he pats her back. “I guess that was the wake-up call I needed. My siblings said they’d always be there to pull me out of trouble…but sometimes that just can’t happen. I’ll be more careful in the future, I promise.”

“Good.”

He’s starting to feel sleepy, all the emotion and revelations of this day finally crashing his body. But he manages a murmur. He wants to tell her while it’s still fresh in his mind. “While I was in the coma, I was…I guess dreaming, or wandering, or something. I’m not sure. But I spoke to my father. My blood father, that is. Anankos.”

She stills, surprised. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” Corrin closes his eyes, trying to figure out how to convey the entire experience, and—he can’t. Words can’t describe it. So he just says, “I think…I think I can accept him as a good man now.”

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a blur of visits and sleep for Corrin. Lilith is among his first visitors, breaking down in sobs, and guilt revives itself as he tries to assuage the misery she feels for not protecting him.  Leo emerges out of nowhere, looking for all the world as if he hasn’t slept or shaved in days, to yell at him in thinly-controlled fury for being so stupid. Kaze keeps a constant vigilance around his bed, a fresh set of shame and failure weighing down his shoulders no matter how much Corrin tells him it wasn’t his fault. Felicia and Mozu brighten his room up with flowers and cheer, and the former hands him a letter from Jakob and Flora wherein the two—of course—admonish him for getting into trouble in their absence. Gunter appears at the end of the third day, cloaked and ready to travel.

“You still won’t stay?” Corrin asks, trying his hardest to feel as if he isn’t being abandoned.

Gunter shakes his head. “Lord Corrin…what I said before still holds true. Now more than ever. Those rebels, Nestor, they were all executed for treason; it would reek of hypocrisy if you let me stay, despite doing the same.”

He wants to keep protesting. _That was years ago, you’ve redeemed yourself, we’ll find a reason_. But the aftermath of the usurpation is tenuous; he needs to reassert himself and clear any lingering doubts. Hypocrisy is the last thing that would help—he already knows the Hoshidans of Valla are angry and ashamed with Jiro for what he’d done. “Will you keep in touch, at least?”

“I can’t promise to write. But…” And a small smile appears on his father figure’s wizened face. “I’ll let you know I’m alive somehow.”

And that is perhaps the best he can hope for.

“Have you forgiven yourself?” Corrin calls after Gunter, as he starts towards the door.

The old knight pauses, hand on the knob and a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I’m beginning to.”

After Gunter are the rest of his siblings, in spirit and letter if not person. Camilla flies by from the border, where she coos and frets and tries to take over his bedside health until he puts his foot down. Hinoka and Takumi visit, as well, though theirs are more brief, and help him whittle the boring hours away with bedside games of shogi and telling stories. Letters arrive; Xander and Ryoma’s are full of stern talking-tos for taking such careless risks and how he must think of how his siblings feel; Elise’s is tear-stained, exclaiming relief at him being alright while simultaneously begging forgiveness for not being able to come. All this reminds him of Azura’s words to him, and strengthens his resolve. He can’t trust that things will work out if he gets in trouble. He finally gets that now.

Silas is the last to visit, returning from the west with a report of the final rebels being squashed and Haitaka killed in combat.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” he says again, hands hovering uselessly in the air as if he can’t decide what to do with them. “If I had, maybe—”

“I still would have been a reckless fool,” Corrin reassures him, hoping that some of self-deprecation will cause Silas to stop his own.

“But maybe they never would have made it that far to begin with!”

“And maybe they still would have.” One look at Silas’s face and he knows he can’t hope to change his mind, so he tries to change the topic. “Did you rescue your father?”

From the way Silas’s face crumples, he knows what the answer is. Corrin quietly curses himself for making things worse. “No. When the enemy general realized they’d lost, he had all the prisoners marched up to the walls…and then he shoved them off. Just to show us we couldn’t save them, just to spite us.”

“I’m sorry.” And even though he _just_ told Silas not to dwell on what-ifs, he can’t help doing the same. If he’d been a better leader, a better king, perhaps Silas’s father would still be alive. “Are you…”

“I’ll be fine.” The smile Silas gives him is trembling and unconvincing. Perhaps he knows it, because after a moment it drops off and he continues, “It’s Mother I’m worried about. She won’t talk to anyone. She’s just throwing herself into repairing the estate. I think she’s trying not to think about what happened.”

“Silas…”

“But I’ll be fine,” he finishes, forced cheer evident in his tone.

“Silas,” Corrin insists, leaning forward and grasping his friend’s forearm, “If you need time off, or a break, or…if there’s anything I can do, just say the word.”

The silver-haired man lets out a long, slow exhale. When he looks up, there’re tears in his eyes. “I’d…like to return home, in a little bit. I left before my mother could hold the funeral, and she’s probably already done it by now…but I do want to visit my father’s grave and pay my respects, once things settle down here.”

Corrin nods. “I’ll make it happen.”

Azura, of course, is a constant visitor. She’s taken over his duties in conjunction with her own, but when she isn’t required in public she’s by his bed, doing paperwork there. From what Corrin hears, she handled leadership nicely in his absence, directing reconstruction efforts, resource distribution, and internal affairs with a cool head and confident aura. He can’t help feeling incredibly proud of her, and tells her so.

A light blush dusts her cheeks when he does. “Thank you. It still made me nervous, to have to handle social things, honestly. But I knew I wanted things to be better when you woke up.”

“You’ve succeeded admirably,” he smiles. “The reports say repairs are well underway, the rebels have been stomped out…I’ve even heard the gap dividing Nohrians and Hoshidans actually started to close after that battle.”

“It has. I’m not surprised.” When he raises his eyebrows, Azura elaborates, “I mean, the same thing happened to them as us, right? The ones here, in Elysium, they had to fight a common enemy. Nationality doesn’t matter when the man at your side is protecting you from the soldier trying to kill you. You can’t not be affected by that, a little.”

“They’re a long way from being friends.” He can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his tone. “And I don’t know if Valla will ever trust me. Especially are seeing me transform in public.”

Azura hums thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I think watching their king, who they feared would be a mindless beast if he transformed, actively show mercy to a fallen enemy, might give them pause.”

His eyebrows arch. “When did you become the optimistic one of us?”

“When you became the pessimistic one. That’s what we do, right? We lift each other up.”

Corrin smiles, squeezing her hand and leaning into her shoulder. “That’s what we do.”

He’s a long way from being fine. He can’t even walk without getting tired and his sword arm needs to be retrained and he hasn't been able to shapeshift even a limb without flashes of pain. But he’s getting there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: That scene with Anankos was one of the first I came up with. I knew I really wanted Corrin to get a chance to actually meet his father, to talk with him, and I felt Anankos deserved it too. And the other routes had a “near-death Corrin talks to deceased relative” scene, so I assumed REV would as well and that we’d get to talk to Anankos there. It wasn’t, sadly. So I wrote it out.
> 
> As for having Corrin crippled, one of the criticisms of Fates was that Corrin doesn’t really suffer any long-lasting consequences for his decisions nor grow. Sure, he’ll lose siblings on BR and CQ, but in both he ends up forgiven for his actions, doesn’t really seem worse off or overly affected, and by all accounts has a dandy future ahead of him. Even in REV, when he gets the chance to grow out of his naivete, the door gets slammed in his face with his siblings coddling him. So I guess I wanted to have a bit of a, well, wake-up call for him. The royals aren’t always going to be able to swoop in and rescue him, and when he makes a rash decision, it’s going to have consequences, and he is going to have to live with them. Sure, Sakura and Leo try, but they can’t fix everything, and neither can his other siblings.
> 
> EDIT: It also struck me that some of you might be wondering how Shigure and Kana will come around. That was going to be answered in the epilogue, but people with heart problems can have sex, if their doctors clear them and they're careful. The 'no sex' ban is temporary, though Corrin'll always have to be cautious about exerting himself from now on.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m going to apologize SO much for the delay in getting this chapter out. It was…hard to write. I guess I just didn’t want to say goodbye, haha. Thank you all for your patience.
> 
> SO, there was some confusion last chapter over Corrin’s injuries, specifically his ability to shapeshift. Some of that’s because they were intended to be resolved in the epilogue, but some of it’s on me. So, I went back and edited some of the dialogue to clarify that some are permanent and some they just don’t know the full extent of the damage yet.

 

Shortly after he woke up, he was assigned a team of healers and physicians, to test him and analyze him and then help him with therapy. By then Corrin had experienced the difficulty of feeding himself one-handed, _left_ -handed; he can manage to spoon broth, but cutting a piece of meat is borderline impossible when the hand holding the fork shakes throughout. He’d gladly welcomed the exercises to increase his aptitude with his off-hand and strengthen his weakened one.

Still, over the weeks he gets bored. They’re dull, to put it plainly. Simple things like holding quills, squeezing soft plush toys, or even just stretching out his fingers. They’re only frustrating with his left hand, but frustrating _and_ painful with his right; he has to literally force it to move the way he wants, and it sends harsh jolts through the weakened nerves. And it never seems to get any stronger, no matter what he does.

His human form isn’t the only one to receive medical examination, because he isn’t solely human. The healers are wary-eyed when he shapeshifts for his first dragon examination, but he doesn’t smell fear or hate on them, and they’re nothing but professional as they run diagnostic spells on his heartbeat. Some of the scholars are caught up in fascination, excited at the chance to study a legendary dragon up close, and he humors them, standing still and letting them examine his antlers, his scales, his wings.

For another four weeks, they do therapy with _that_ form too. Instead of trying to learn to use another limb, it’s testing how far he can go with his heart. Building stamina. Trotting, jumping, slow gliding (he’d never even known he could until Sakura suggested he try). Swimming, which is surprisingly refreshing and makes the dragon in him purr. Chasing magical orbs makes him feel like a dog, though.

When they finally decide to let him try to rampage, listening wide-eyed as he explained why it’s necessary, he almost passes out; he’s scarcely torn up three trees before he goes dizzy, usually-elegant limbs folding underneath him like paper. His ears pick up alarmed shouts from the healers nearby, and footsteps as they rush over. Sakura is in the lead, and her eyes shine with fear as she hastily starts throwing spells on him.

“Y-You’re going to give yourself a heart attack!” she protests as he tries to get back up, that itch still not entirely sated.

It takes the entire team constantly funneling Psychic spells into his heart to hold out, and everyone is so exhausted they all fall asleep the minute they return to the palace. It works, but Corrin’s not happy with it. He can’t drag half a dozen healers into Valla with him every time he needs to rampage, they have other duties, and someday there will be someone who needs them more.

* * *

It’s Kaze who comes up with the solution, listening to Corrin grouse about it as they grab sake—well, Kaze gets sake. He has water. Got to watch that heart after all. “Perhaps, milord, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

From the décor—paper lanterns and watercolor paintings and rice-paper walls—the inn was originally Hoshidan, but it’s started to adapt to account for Elysium’s other ethnicities. Low tables and cushions fill the room, having quickly been accepted as the compromise after Corrin’s various dinners. The menu still offers mostly Hoshidan dishes, but there are a few Nohrian and Vallite delicacies too. The sight gives him hope, that the citizens have finally started to accept each other, rather than just tolerate. He’s cloaked and hooded; it’s still too soon after the attack for everyone, himself included, to feel comfortable with him openly being out in public, and he knows there are a dozen ninja hidden among the inn’s customers. He feels a bit bad asking Kaze to sneak him out of the castle, but he’s just been cooped up in the sickroom for so _long_ —he just needed to get out for a little bit.

Ignoring the itchy sensation of his bodyguards’ subtle watching, he sips at his water and asks, “How so?”

“You’re worried about building enough stamina so you can rampage without keeling over, and that it’ll take too long to do so.”

He nods, not seeing where Kaze’s going with this. The ninja hurries away from the table, briefly speaks with the innkeeper, and then returns with two cups. He sets one down. “This symbolizes you.” He holds up the other cup, tilting it so Corrin can see the water in it. “And the water is your draconic urges.”

Slowly, he starts to pour the water in the Corrin-cup. “By my understanding, the urge to destroy will build up in you, like the water fills this cup. If you don’t empty the cup—pour out those urges—it’ll overflow and destroy you.” He stops pouring as the water bubbles over the edges, as if to show his point.

“That’s correct,” Corrin nods, still not quite seeing what he’s getting at.

Kaze pours the water back in the first cup. Again, he starts to fill the Corrin-cup—but this time he stops, while it’s barely a quarter full. “Instead of waiting for the cup to fill before emptying it, why not empty it every time a bit of water is poured?”

Corrin’s eyebrows rise, and he hums thoughtfully. “Just go out and destroy something daily, and see if that quells it?”

“It’s less efficient, but it might cause less strain on your heart.”

Rampage a small bit each day to sate the dragon, rather than letting it grow restless… Basically relying on quantity over quality. He can’t say he’s considered that before. He decides to run it by Lilith the next day, when she drops by for her visit.

His sister frowns when he finishes explaining, which initially makes his heart drop, until he realizes it’s not in rejection of the idea—rather, from the distant look in her eyes, careful consideration. “I wish I could say I knew if it’d work or not,” she finally sighs. “But like I said, I’ve never had this problem since I’m artificially created. And Father never spoke much of his attempts to curb the madness.”

“There’s nothing in the Rainbow Sage’s journals?”

“No. Why would there be? All the dragons beside him and Father left before—” She freezes, eyes widening in consideration. Lilith slowly twists her braid in her hands, lips moving wordlessly as she seems to connect dots in her head. “Maybe that’s it…” she breathes.

“What’s it?”

She looks back at him, golden eyes sharp and wide. “Corrin, the Rainbow Sage was a dragon too. He must have had the same urges to destroy as you. And we know that repressing them isn’t good for a dragon’s health. So where did he let them out?”

Understanding dawns on him. “He probably wouldn’t dare go to Valla, with Father still there…and if he tried to do large-scale rampages on the mainland, over so many years…someone would have seen him eventually, or tried to kill him.”

Lilith is nodding, bouncing on her heels, growing more animated. “Look at where he lived—isolated in the mountains, in large towers that could easily hold a dragon, with spells that create illusory enemies to fight. What if they weren’t just to test newcomers, but a way for him to release that pent-up energy?”

For a moment, he’s thrilled, sure they’ve found an answer. Then Corrin’s spirits slowly sink as he examines Lilith’s words again. “That’s still no proof he was doing it daily, though.”

“Isn’t it? Corrin, when you rampaged, you destroyed part of a forest. Father destroyed an _entire_ forest. That sort of damage to his home wouldn’t be something he’d want to consistently repair, and if he wasn’t rampaging as strongly, he must have been rampaging more frequently. Look,” she adds, seeing his pensive expression, “I think it’s at least worth a try.”

So he runs it by the healers, manages to get an agreement. And each day from then on, he visits the old Valla, pushing himself harder than he does in therapy, but not quite so hard as to make him almost pass out again. Only destroying a little forest here, tearing up a bit of land there. It’s tiring, but it never makes him feel like he’s going to pass out, and it quickly becomes obvious that this way, the team of healers are unnecessary; soon only one stays on hand, just in case.

A week passes, then two, then four. Every day he goes to Valla to “frolic”, as Elise teasingly calls it when she writes. It’s frustrating to fit into his schedule, and he isn’t quite sure it’s working, but he hasn’t felt any pressing urges to destroy nor madness on his mind, so he assumes it is.

* * *

His personal recovery isn’t the only matter to be attended to, of course. The kingdom needs to be stabilized, the city cleaned and repaired, any remaining traitors rooted out, his own staff changed—Nestor’s betrayal left him bereft of a steward. Fortunately, a candidate is easy to find. Part of him still thinks it’s wrong, or at least odd, for his sister to take the job, but she has the leadership experience from her life under Anankos, the management duties from her time as a maid, and more than that he trusts her implicitly. Lilith was overjoyed to receive the offer anyway, feeling glad that she can finally be useful in a way that does not require her to kill.

Three whole months after he wakes up, he’s no longer required to sleep in the sickroom overnight, and relishes his return to his bed with Azura. Now that they’re sure he’s not at risk of killing himself, Leo and Sakura leave for Nohr. Corrin makes sure to treat them to a nice dinner somewhere beforehand. There he teases them about when _they’re_ getting married, then about how their faces are turning a matching shade of tomato red.

His relationship with Azura is easier to patch up, now, once he can see her outside visiting hours again. It took her two weeks to have sex with him again; even after they spent hours talking with the doctors, checking for everything he needs to know and being reassured he can if he doesn’t strain himself, she still treated him like glass, afraid he’d give out the moment he tried to speed things up.

And—well, it’s different. That’s not to say it’s not _nice_. Just…different. Very slow, more emotional than physical. Nothing like the frenzied, passionate lovemaking of their newlywed period. And Azura keeps stopping to check if he’s alright. But they manage it.

The first time Corrin tries to play the piano for a duet with her, his right hand stutters and spasms, pressing all the wrong keys or pressing the right ones too late, and it’s just—awful. The music he produces is awful. Hot tears sting his eyes, and his heart feels like lead in his chest when he finally gives up, conceding defeat. Part of Corrin is ashamed for getting this upset over a piano, but it’s drowned out by the sense of loss that’s overtaken him.

Azura stops singing and walks to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, and he’s glad for that. Playing the piano was one of his only comforts in his time of solitude at the fortress, during the long, lonely hours when his friends were busy with work and his siblings were at Castle Krakenburg. It was stupid, he knew, but it had almost been a friend to him.

“I know it’s no replacement,” she says finally, “but I can teach you to sing if you want.”

“Maybe later,” he replies, hands still resting on the ivory keys.

She sits on the bench next to him and drops her head on his shoulder. Sensing his need for a change in subject, she offers, “The nobles seemed quite happy to see your return today.”

“I was surprised by that.” Today had been the day he’d officially returned to court, taking up his crown again, and the first time he’d publicly greeted Elysium’s citizens since his hospitalization. He’d been pleased by the warm reaction. There’d been respect in their eyes now— _as if killing a god wasn’t enough_ —but he did get why. He’d proven himself able to handle internal threats as well as external ones, even if in a reckless manner.

With a teasing lilt to her voice, Azura adds, “I’m not. I’d almost be insulted by the difference in reception, if I hadn’t always known they liked you more than me.” She smiles at him.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he hastens, and she shakes her head.

“You were the one who was always making public visits, passing laws to make life easier on them, being sociable. I’m only the substitute.”

“No, you’re not,” he insists, twisting to meet her golden eyes. “You’re my wife and my queen, and you care for the citizens more than you show. You ran into a marketplace that was on fire to help them, and they saw that. I think you give yourself too little credit.”

It baffles him, that Azura doesn’t seem to realize how much of a blessing she’s been. She managed the kingdom’s affairs very well as he’d struggled to relearn basic skills. She doesn’t quite have his charisma with managing nobles, but her steely spine and poise has earned her their respect, and they gave her little trouble. She also, Corrin admits, has the…he doesn’t want to say _ruthlessness._ Maybe _unbending_. _Unbending_ will to make decisions he can’t. He hopes she’ll take a more active role in ruling beside him in the future; maybe then he won’t be so prone to foolish decisions.

A pleased little smile pulls at her lips, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Nevertheless, I am quite happy to stand back again and let you handle the reins.”

“I won’t be.” She tilts her head quizzically, and he clarifies, “I mean, I don’t want to be alone in my decision-making. I need you by my side, Azura.”

“I never left it.”

* * *

A year later, their son is born. Shigure’s birth brings a huge celebration across Valla. Corrin’s siblings send their congratulations, presents delivered by pegasus or wyvern—stuffed animals from Elise and Sakura, wooden toy soldiers (large enough that Shigure can’t swallow them) from Ryoma, a colorful rattle from Xander, tiny clothes he knows Camilla and Hinoka have hand-embroidered. Corrin rolls his eyes with fondness when he sees _books_ from Leo and a shogi set carved from polished wood from Takumi, even though it’ll be years before Shigure can read or play. Lilith paints a picture of him and Azura with their son, and his friends throw a small party, separate from the approaching royal one.

There are also presents from the various nobles and daimyos, tributes to reassure their loyalty to the heir. Among them is a humble, mysterious basket, full of turnips. There’s no note, no indication where it comes from, but Corrin knows who sent it the moment he sees it. The thought of Gunter retiring on a farm somewhere and growing crops makes him smile.

The royal nursery is painted in calming shades of blue and gray, Valla’s royal colors. A side door connects it to his and Azura’s room—they’d wanted to care for Shigure themselves rather than relegate it to a wet-nurse, something that had shocked the servants, but after their own experiences as being kidnapped as children they don’t feel comfortable otherwise. The crib has a canopy, with Shigure surrounded by his stuffed animals like a plump, happy cat resting on pillows. He blinks his golden eyes at his father and gurgles.

Corrin wonders if this spinning, floaty, overjoyed feeling of being a parent ever goes away, or becomes something you get used to. It’s persisted from the first moment Azura told him she was with child, grew stronger as the pregnancy grew longer, and exploded into a supernova of delirious bliss when he first saw his son. He’s a little under two weeks old now, and that supernova hasn’t burned out yet.

He will admit, part of him is scared of the baby in the crib. Scared _for_ the baby, rather. He doesn’t know how much of his draconic heritage has been passed on, doesn’t know if that’ll come back to haunt Shigure in the future. He’s never been a father before and out of the many he’s had, he doesn’t have many good memories to go on. A hundred thoughts and worries spin in his head, centering on one thing: _will I be a good father to you?_

Despite the year, the nerves in his right arm remain as dulled as ever, and the arm itself is slow, fine-motor skills difficult. He’s learned how to eat with his left hand, and write with his left hand—chickenscratch, it may as well be—and he has only just started to train in swords with his left hand. And for all the gradual improvements, he has never once returned to his peak physical health. Walking up stairs, something he never thought much of, exerts so much effort on him he has to stop to catch his breath. Because of this, it took Azura an hour to convince him to hold Shigure when he was born; he’d been so afraid his right arm would give out and he’d drop him. He still doesn’t hold Shigure unless he’s sitting down, but he spends almost every moment he can with him, cooing at him and marveling at his tiny finger and even tinier fingernails. He hopes that makes up for it.

He reaches inside the crib and gently strokes one of his son’s chubby little cheeks. “The world you grow up in,” he promises Shigure, “will be one where you never have to pick a side. Where both sides of your heritage are at peace and the only wars you know are the wars in books.”

They’re hosting a banquet to celebrate his birth and officially present him to the kingdom in a week, and Corrin feels optimistic it’ll go well. Relations between the two halves of Valla have continued to improve.  One year since Jiro’s Rebellion, as it has oh-so-cleverly been named, three years total since Valla’s formation, obviously is not enough for generations of prejudices to die completely. But the beginnings of change have been visible wherever he looks. It’s like Azura said after he woke up—there’s a little less animosity between the Nohrians and Hoshidans, a little more willingness to help neighbors. He sees soldiers of different ethnicities chatting casually together, bonded by mutual combat experience. His friends tell him of people of similar trades exchanging tips. In the noble’s schools, under his new education system, children are being taught to see both sides of the conflict, so the next generation will be less bigoted than this. There are still cultural misunderstandings and slurs hurled and distrust, but there are also people stepping in and trying to diffuse those situations. Who knows where they’ll be in another year, in five, in ten?

Azura had also been right about the distrust towards him abating. Lilith’s transformation had a part in that—seeing a dragon defend their city, move and think like a human, had given many of the citizens pause. The soldiers who fought with her in the defense of Elysium, at the very least, are fervent defenders, and he thinks she’s found a few more friends with them. But seeing him move and act intelligently, knowingly try to spare a defeated enemy, has left people thinking about the bestiality of dragons. And he has reforms in mind—adding a full history of what went wrong and how they work to the education system—make it so that people can understand them. And maybe then they won’t fear.

He starts to hum as Shigure yawns, hoping to lull him to sleep. _What’s that particular line…? “Yet the waters ever change/flowing like time/the path is yours to climb…”_

Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe things won’t go as well as he hopes. He doesn’t doubt there will be more wars in the future. But that world, a world of peace and understanding, where prejudice is a thing of the past, is the one he, his wife, his siblings, and his friends are trying to create.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that ends this fic. Aftermath was a long project, over a year. It’s probably going to be my last Fates fanfic—I want to focus on finishing my Danganronpa work, Extra Life, and doing two multi-chapters at the same time was very tiring. And for me, inspirations for one-shots come and go, so I really can’t promise to deliver anymore. But beyond that, I’ve just felt ready to move on.
> 
> This fandom has been an absolute blessing. I’ve met a ton of wonderful people here, read many enjoyable stories, and was able to spread my wings as a fanfic writer for the first time. I thank every single one of you for sticking to Aftermath with me, especially since I slowed down a lot the past few updates. If it weren’t for your continued support, I never would have been able to finish.


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